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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPEE’S
T4jl7 6
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
VOLUME XCVII1.
DECEMBER, 1898, TO MAY, 1899.
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
325 to 337 PEARL STREET,
* PRAMKL15 SQUARE.
1899.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XCVIII
DECEMBER, 1898— MAY, 1899.
Africa (see “ Trekking Trip in Sonth Africa, A”)
American Army (see 44 Birtb of the American Army, The ”)..
American War (see 44 Spanish- American War, The”)
Anglo-Saxon Affinities
Ape of Death, The '
Army (see 44 Birth of the American Army, The ”)
Aspects of Rome
Illustrated by F. V. Du Mond.
376
961
449, 505, 715, 833
Julian Ralph 385
Dr. Andrew Wilson, F.R.S.E. 77 A
961
Arthur Symons 667
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Head-piece 66T At ihe Carnival 07*2
Waiting for the King 668 Market-women 67*2
The Promenade 669 The Mattel Garden 678
The Carnival Confetti 6T0 Santa Maria 074
The Carnival Pierrots 671
Astronomical Outlook, Tiik. As related to the Perfection
of our Instruments and Methods of Observation.
Austria (see “ Fifty Years of Francis Joseph”)
Baldy. A Story
Birth of the American Army, The
Illustrated by Frederic Remington.
Bismarck the man and the Statesman
Blockade of Cuba (see “ Spanish- American War, The”)
Boy in the Cloth Cap, The (see “ Drawer, The ”)
Brother Jonathan's Couinies. A Historical Account
Brother of 44 Chuck” McGann, The. A Story
Illustrated by Fletcher C. Ransom.
Building ok the Modern City House, The
Illustrated from Photographs and Plans.
^ C. A. Young 409
310
Sarah Barnwell Elliott 416
Horace Kephart 961
Charlton T . Lewis 321*
715
329
...Albert Bushnell Hart 319
.Henry M. Blossom, Jr. 949
Russell Sturgis 579
Catherine Carr. A Story Mary E. Wilkins 882
Illustrated by Clifford Caulkton.
Cervera, Admiral (see 14 Spauish- American War, The,” 715; 44 Rescue of Admiral Cer-
vera, The,” 783).
Chicago (see 44 Massacre of Fort Dearborn at Chicago, The”) 649
Civil Service and Colonization, The Francis Xewton Thorpe ?5 8
Colonies (see *• Brother Jonathans Colonies ”) 319
Colonization (see “Civil Service and Colonization, The”) 858
Coming Fusion of East and West, The Ernest F. Fenollosa 115
Correspondents (see 44 Our War Correspondents in Cuba and Puerto Rico”) 938
Cromwell and ius Court. Incidents and Anecdotes gathered )
from Cromwellian Newspapers and Tracts. $
Illustrated from Engravings by Florian after original Portraits and from a Photograph.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Oliver Cromwell 754 Elizabeth Stewart Cromwell 756
Cromwell's Death-Mask 755
..Amelia Barr 753
Cuba (see 44 Naval Campaign of 1898 in the West Indies, The,” 175; 44 Spanish-American
War, The,” 449, 505, 715, 833 ; 44 Our War Correspondents in Cuba and Puerto Rico,”
938 ; 4* Honor to Whom Honor is Due,” 803).
Curing of the Judge, The (see “Drawer, The”) 657
Democracy (see 44 Weakness of the Executive Power in Democracy, The ”) 210
Dewey, Admiral George (see 44 With Dewey at Manila”) 476
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
IV
CONTENTS.
Dkawkis, Thk 163, 329, 495, 657, 823, 983
INTRODUCTORY BTOKIE8.
Utilitarian Mb. Jablky, Tub. Illustrated by Pktkk Nkwki.i John Kendrick Bang* 153
Boy in thk Clotu Cap, The. Illustrated by A. B. Frost F. Hopkinmn Smith 323
Minkbvy’s Valentines. Illustrated by A. B. Frost Ruth McEnery Stuart 435
Cubing ok tub Judge, Tiik. Illustrated by A. B. Frost L. Morgan Sill 667
Tigrb-Liliks. A Poem. Illustrated by A. B. Frost Ruth McEnery Stuart 823
Took Taylor’s April Foolishness. Illustrated by A. B. Frost Ruth McEnery Stuart 983
Sketches for the Drawer by Peter Newell, 166, 333, Wilder, 171, 664; Albert E. Sterner, 172, 383; Gustave
502; Oliver Herford, 167, 830; H. B. Eddy, 168, 163, Verbeek, 336; Penrhyn Stanlaws, 661; W. H. Hyde,
334, 335, 500, 501, 662, 663, 828, 823, 332, 933 ; H. M. 827 ; B. C. Day, 931 ; C. R. McAuley, 334.
East and West (see “ Coming Fusion of East and West, The ”) 115
English Characteristics Julian Ralph 562
Illustrated by W. T. Smkdley.
Equipment of the Modern City House, The Russell Sturgis 810
Illustrated by J. A. Johnson.
Esmeralda of Rocky Canyon, An. A Story Bret ffarte 14
Illustrated by Pf.tkr Newell.
Executive Power (see “ Weakness of the Executive Power in Democracy, The ”) 210
Fable for Heiresses, A. A Story ..Alice Duer 160
Facing Tiie North Star C. C. Abbot 473
Fifty Years of Francis Joseph Sydney Brooks 310
Forrest (see “Lieutenant-Colonel Forrest at Fort Douelson,” 339 ; “Major-General For-
rest at Brice’s Cross-Roads,” 530).
Fort Dearborn (see “Massacre of Fort Dearborn at Chicago, The ”) 649
Fort Donelson (see “Lieutenant-Colonel Forrest at Fort Douelson ”) 339
Francis Joseph (see “Fifty Years of Francis Joseph 99 ) 310
Frontispieces.. 2, 174, 338, 504, 666, 832
“And you shall not uindrr ml” Illustration iu color for “Old) „
Captain.” By Howard Pylk. _ _ {
Thk Battlk ok Santiago, July S._ Illustration for “The Naval Campaign^ 17^
of 1S98 In the West Indies.” Drawn by Carlton T. Chapman. f
LlKUTKN ANT-COLON KI. FoRIlKST MaUOUING OUT FROM DoVKIt TO ATTACK TIIE FkDKHAL RlGIIT. )
Illustration for “ Lieutenant-Colonel Forrest at Fort Donelson.” Drawn by T. i*k Thulstkitp./ ** ‘
President McKinley Signing the .Ultimatum. Illustration for “The
Spanish-Americnn War.” Drawn by T. me Tiiulstrup. S
“Christopher thrust his Weapon out jbkfork Him.” Illustration for(
“The Princess Xenia.” Drawn by T. dr Tiiulstrup. f
“There was no One ho Effective as the Austrian Officers.” Illustration for)
“Their Silver Wedding Journey.” Drawn by W. T. Smkdley. (
.. 338
666
832
Girl and the Game, The. A Football Story Jesse Lynch Williams 78
Illustrated by W. T. Smedlky.
Ghosts in Jerusalem. A Story 1. C. Wheeler 355
Illustrated bv F. Y. Du Mond.
Glimpse at Nubia, A. Miscalled “The Soudan”.. Captain T. C. S . Speedy 242
Illustrated by R. Caton Woodvillk.
illustrations.
A Nubian Chief in Battle 242 “I am the Brother of the Girls I” 247
Greeting a Traveller outside the Zcribn 245 A Nubian Sword-hunter 248
His Nomination. A Story Margaret Sutton Briscoe 465
Illustrated bv 1’. C. Yoiix.
Historic Institution, A. The Manhattan Company — 1799-1899... John Kendrick Bangs 971
Honor to Whom Honor is Due Rufus Fairchild Zogbaum 803
Illustrated by F. D. Stkklk.
How Santa Claus was Saved. A Story Mary T. Tan Denburgh 27
Illustrated by W. T. Smedlky.
How the Other Half Laughs John Corbin 30
Illustrated by Lucius Hitchcock and Henry McCarter.
Jouett, Matthew Harris (see “Kentucky’s Master-Painter”) 914
Keeping House in London Julian Ralph 866
Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner.
Kkxti cky’s Mastkii-Paintki: : Mathikw Harms ) C*«r/« Henry Hart 914
Jouett, 1788-1827. S
Illustrated from the Original Paintings and Drawing by Jouett. Engravings by E. Schladitz
and Henry Wolf,
ii. lustrations.
John Grime** 915 Mrs. Irvine 919
Matthew Harris Jouett 916 Thomas Todd 920
A Pen Drawing by Jouett 917 James Mastersou 921
General Francis Preston 91S
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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CH
VI
CONTENTS.
Puerto Rico (see “Our War Correspondents in Cuba and Puerto Rico”).. 938
Rented House, The. A Story Octave Thanet 630
Illustrated by Albkrt E. Sterner.
.Peter Keller 783
Rescue of Admiral Cervera, The. The Narrative ,
of an American Bluejacket.
Rescue of the “Winslow,” The Lieutenant Ernest E . Mead , U.S.R.C.S. 1*23
Illustrated by H. Rkitkudaiil. Engraving by E. Schladitz.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The Opening of the Engagement... m
Lieutenant J. B. Bernadou 12G
Lieutenant Scott throwing the Line to the
“Winslow” 127
The Deck of the “Winslow” 12S
The Spot where Ensign Worth Bagley and
the Four Sailors were killed
Aft -gun Crew of United States Steamship
“Hudson”
12S
129
Romance of Chinkapin Castle, The. A Story Ruth McEnery Stuart 297
Illustrated by Clifford Carleton.
Rome (see “ Aspects of Rome ”) 667
Sad Case of the Princess Esme, The Chalmers Roberts 708
Santiago (see “ Spanisb-American War, The”) 833
Science (see “Astronomical Outlook, The,” 409; “Ape of Death, The,” 774).
Second Wooing of Salina Sue, The. A Story Ruth McEnery Stuart 49
Illustrated by A. B. Frost,
Sick Child, The. A Story Henook- Ma kh cue- K den a Jca (Angel de Cora) 44G
Illustrated by the Author.
Sketch by MacNeil, A. A Story Frederic Remington 863
Illustrated by the Author.
Sleep (see “Ape of Death, The”) 774
Soudan, The (see “Glimpse at Nubia, A”) 242
South Africa (see “Trekking Trip in South Africa, A”) 376
Spanish- American War, The. — I. The Unsettled Question, \
449. IP The Coming of War, 505. III. The Blockade of ( ... Hon . Henry Cabot Lodge
Cuba and Pursuit of Cervera, 715. IV. Santiago, 833. >
Illustrated by Carlton T. Chapman, T. de Thulstrup, R.F. Zoobaum, H. Ditzler, H. Rectkrdaiil,
II. C. Christy, and G. A. Traver; and from Photographs. Engraving by E. Schladitz.
Part I.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The “Maine” entering Havana Harbor (Head-
piece) - 449
The “ Virginias ” overhauled by the Spanish
Gunboat “Tornado” 452
Sefior CAnovas del Castillo 457
General Fitzhugh Lee 45S
General Stewart L. Woodford
Sefior Dupuy de lA>me
Sefior Praxedes Mateo Sognsta
The “Maine” at her final Berth in Havana
Harbor
Captain Charles D. Sigsbee
459
460
461
462
464
Part II.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
President McKinley signing the Ultimatum
(Frontispiece) 504
Redfleld Proctor 506
William R. Dav 507
William P. Frye 508
Clarence D. Clark 508
Henry Cabot I,odge 508
Cushman K. Davis 50S
David Turpie 508
John W. Daniel 508
Roger 9 Mills Vis
John T. Morgan 508
George Gray 50S
Shelby M. Cullorn 508
Joseph B. Foraker 508
Plaza de Fondo, Manila 516
Priests gathering 'Taxes in the Philippines... 518
Wreck of the Cruiser “Isla de Cuba" 519
West Battery. Cavite, after Destruction 520
Wreck of the Flag- ship, the Cruiser “ Rciun
Cristina ” 521
Wreck of the Cruiser “Isla de Luzon” 521
Residence of Aguinaldo 522
Part III.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The Sailing of the American Fleet from
Tampa (Head-piece) 715
The Bombardment of Matanzas 717
The Spanish Squudron at the Cape Verde Isl-
ands 71S
Colonel Dorst’s Expedition in the “Gnssie”—
the Landing at Point Arholitas 721
Cutting the Cables under Fire at Cienfuegus. . 723
The Home-coming of the “Oregon ” 724
The Daily Positions of the Spanish Squadron
under Admiral Cervera (Map) 725
Bombardment of San Juan 727
The Daily Positions of Fleet in Campaign
against the Spanish Squadron (Map) 7*28
Captain Evans of the “Iowa” sighting the
“Cristobal Colon” and the “Maria Tere-
sa” in Santiago Harbor 729
The Last of the “Merrimac" 730
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
CONTENTS.
Vli
Spanish -American War, The. — ( Continued .)
Part IV.
illustrations.
Soldiers of the Cuban Army 834
General Garcia and Brigadier - General Lud-
low 835
The Landing of the American Array at Dai-
quiri 836
Joseph Wheeler 838
William R. Shatter 839
The Hotchkiss Battery iu Action at Las Qua-
si inns 840
Theodore Roosevelt 841
The Capture of El Caney 842
The Capture of the Block-House, San Juan .. 845
General H. S. Hawkins at San Juan 847
Edwin V. Sumner 849
Adna R. Chaffee % 849
Hamilton S. Hawkins 849
Leonard Wood 849
Jacob F. Kent 849
William Ludlow 849
Charles A. Wikoff 849
Wallace F. Randolph 849
Pasquale de Cervera 851
William T. Sampson s53
Winfield S. Schley 853
Henry C. Taylor 853
Charles E. Clark 853
Robley D Evans 853
John W. Philip 853
The “Gloucester'’ and the Spanish Torpedo-
boats 855
The Last of Cervera’s Fleet 856
SpanisH-Amkrican War, The (see “ Rescue of tbe ‘Winslow/ The,” 123; “Naval Cam-
paign of 1H98 in the West Indies, The,” 175; “Naval Lessons of the War, The,” 288;
“ Rescue of Admiral Cervera, The,” 783).
Span o’ Life, The. A Novel.
Parts HI., IV., V., VI.
Illustrated bv F. dk Myrbacii.
. William McLennan and J. X. Mcllwraith 83, 253, 422, 606
Sport (see “ Trekking Trip in South Africa, A”)... 376
Sultan at Home, The Sidney Whitman, F.R.G.S. 276
Illustrated by Harry Fknn, and from Photographs. Engraving by E. Schladitz.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Kiosque des Eaux-Douces d'Asle, one of the The Sultan going to the Mosqtie 278
Sultan’s Palaces (Head-piece) 276 Ahmed Midhat Effendi 280
Their Silver Wedding Journey. A Novel William Dean Howells 193,392,546,787,922
Illustrated by W. T. Smedlky.
Thirteen Days in Unexplored Montenegro May McClellan Desprez 741
Illustrated by T. K. Hanna, Jr., after the Author’s Photographs.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Head-piece 740
The lun at Mala Rieka 742
The Inn at Tzarevitcba 742
Crossing the Tara 743
AndriavUza 744
A Turkish Tower at Beraui 745
Our Montenegrin Escort 745
Turkish Officers at Beraui 746
The Monastery of Ginrgevi Stupobi 747
Our five Men and the Horses resting 747
Capitano Backitch, Auto, and Manx 748
At Kolashin 749
The Mosque at Kolashin 749
The Monastery of Morntsha 750
The Chapel of Morntsha 751
Rained Turkish Fortress of Nickshish 75*2
Tobb Taylor’s April Foolishness (see “ Drawer, The ”) 983
Transient, A. A Story Annie Trumbull Slosson 105
Trekking Trip in South Africa, A A. C. Humbert 376
Illustrated by Edward B. Edwards, E. C. Pkixotto, Lucius Hitchcock, Gkorgk Wharton
Edwards, Clifford Carlkton, and E. L. Bi.umknschkin.
Head -niece
The House at Rondcluisch
A View in Caledon
Our Camp
The Trekking Wagon
Franz Kraal
ILLUSTRATIONS.
376 Bonuto-bok
377 A Representative South-African Fumily
377 The House on Dyer s Island
378 Penguins on Dyer s Island
379 8eals on Dyer s Island
38«
380
381
382
383
384
Trial of the “Oregon,” The L. A. Beardslee , Hear -Admiral, U. S. X. 699
Illustrated by Carlton T. Chapman and Edward B. Edwards.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The “Oregon” (Head-piece) 699
The “Oregon” in the Dock at San Fran-
cisco 700
Turning to Starbourd — the Trial Board ob-
serving Results 701
Under Full Speed — as seen from the Pilot-house. 702
Irving M. Scott 703
Charles E. Clark 704
The Return after the Trial 7«>5
Announcing the Victory 706
Under an April Sky. A Story Brandcr Matthews 764
Illustrated by W. T. Smkdlky.
Unexpectedness of Mr. Horace Shields, The (see “Old Chester Tales.— IX”) 142
United States as a World Power, The. A Chapter /
ok National Expk.uk.nck. \ Mbert Bmh,,el1 Hart 485
Utilitarian Mr. Jarlky, The (see “ Drawer, The ”) 163
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
CONTENTS.
viii
Wak, The Spanish- American (see “Rescue of tlie ‘Winslow,’ The,” 123; “Naval Cam-
paign of 1898 in the West Indies, The,” 175 ; “Naval Lessons of the War, The,” 288 ;
“ Spanish-American War, The,” 449, 505, 715, 833; “ Rescue of Admiral Cervera, The,”
783 ; “ Our War Correspondeuts in Cuba and Puerto Rico,” 938 ; “ With Dewey at Ma-
nila,” 476).
Way of the Cross, The. A Story Stephen Bonsai 595
Illustrated by Edward B. Edwards. #
Weakness of the Executive Power in Democracy, The Henry Loomis Nelson 210
West Indies (see “Naval Campaign of 1898 in the West Indies, The”) 175
White Forest, The Frederic Remington 62
Illustrated by the Author.
ILLUSTRATIONS.
The old Yale Stroke 63 The Seriouanoss of Four Feel of Snow 68
The Essex Troo|>er 64 Caribou Track 69
The Cabin 66 Ice-flebipg 70
The hot Finish in the Snow-shoe Race 67
White Heron, The. A Story Fiona Maclcod 71
Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner.
“ Winslow,” The (see “ Rescue of the * Wuislow,’ The ”) 123
With Dewey at Manila Joseph L. Stickney 476
Illustrated from a Photograiph taken by the Author during the Battle.
ILLUSTRATION.
Commodore Dewey and hla Captain*, Gridlcy mid Lam1>erton 477
Without the Courts. A Story Sarah Barnwell Elliott 575
POETRY.
At the Comedy (see “Stories in Verse”)
Ballad of Manila Bay, A
Illustrated by Carlton T. Chapman.
Clew, The. A Sonnet
Dancing Lights, The
Ebb-Tide '
Ere Christ, the Flower of Virtue, Bloomed
Illustrated by F. V. Dr Mono.
Hearth-Ease over Henry Heine
His Talisman
Love
Love and Death
Love’s Insistence
Love’s Wounds
Martyrs’ Idyl, The
Illustrated by E. Grasskt.
574
Charles G. D . Roberts 112
Robert Mowry Bell 446
John White Chadwick 810
Guy Wetmore Carryl 605
Louise Morgan Sill 24
Sarah Piatt 523
Martha Gilbert Dickinson 448
Margaret E. Songster 408
John Vance Cheney 863
V ina Frances La yard 484
Louise Betts Edwards 881
— Louise Imogen Guiney 130
Mary
Maya
Remorse
Revelation
Illustrated by F. V. Du Mono.
Illustrated by F. V. Dr Mono.
Serenade
Song, A
Stories in Verse. — I. A Woman’s Hand. II. At ?
the Comedy. III. A Tragedy. $
Storm and Calm
Tiger-Lilies (see “Drawer, The ”)
Tragedy, A (see “ Stories in Verse”)
Violet
Woman’s Hand, A (see “ Stories in Verse ”).
Words We do not Say, The
Ruth McEnery Stuart 23
Emile Andrew Huber 391
Arthur J. Stringer 475
... Virginia Woodward Cloud 26
Rosamund Marriott Watson 48
llildegarde Hawthorne 606
Arthur J. Stringer 574
Helen Hay 546
823
574
...Martha Gilbert Dickinson 656
574
...Martha Gilbert Dickinson 104
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
. -
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mam
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Hoarseness,
Radem: Frost Bites,
' Soreness,
IMF Jf Catarrh,
" '&££&£ Burns,
Bruises,
Sore Feet,
mm. a d. "
NQTEv-PONO’S EXTRACT is and atWay« hat been manufactured
by ourselves, at our own factory, and is guaranteed unequalUd, in
quality, purity, uniformity, and medicinal virtue.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
*
/
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Go gle
By Myles Heme n way
lllcftraretf by Howard Pyle.
i£r .'■'TYVis Virfrn fcow wluov r.)v/ hmtii&o it Vy-mtW >o»we do to have
(i Wl fcr^lanA ln^for{r ouf ^ l}T£g</r nhuV in . ii? w*
•dear -MViijiii .infnrnhihMfi ' my w that ijiniefc yfVt had rtfotv
‘.seemi $rfU ■ r*. Ju« 5na g '.v ;sm Uf do uiMt ins ground j*>i< Aovhov he
\ t*fi OKI CViptani, as W \x4& rnatt rit r at v-i^tv , . <w*p
s?aVe; vva^ & e * i*i n\ ami <»f n$, a Wj? jis' *v$p;
Uq>[iViI tht' wild hid wi(h kirhed Uf»- waves " )»e. used to sm»5W 3»f
•sailor. to i*e fickvd mio mv.^reann self with .>wiYii£«
Wlinvrvev Ins run'll How i»Ois«- < \ : s \(f i»«. l ha! to •>*•*.■•
trade. jrtvmil^vthHr shirk ed my ■ '.Min»iR*r v ion ms likv a mi.ov. iv/idd
oj taiiihi; iWel.oh h>o‘ lit witji J « * v * I r'inhnf imHi h > om
r'hd Aith the orno^a v ba! love be dat. vm/l l 'h i i 1 1 is kl u f ; n w y , i -
As dor Some iitiol. in- do^huw. ,A" (In li''1 woii- |'.f h-w: liroi
t*i - ’A,. j, ■ '. / *V Ay'; !
HARPER’S
NEW MONTHLY
ft/. *- »Y •'.* '•* ; Vw>!; ‘ ; v- v ' a y.y/f •* a* %l* • --A-y-.t * . ^ '• * • T* .vv
MAGAZINE
v... \ ill
* ' ^ * 4 Af
rf-i
HI'a KM BEK, IMlg.
N*>. ft LX XX III
iURPEtr$ ^E\V MONTHLY MAGAZINE
as 1 i IT fe warmed at jir$fc as I w by 1»?V falha'r lw>\ved itk>ckifV|Wy ; aighttn-
later looks, her lAthey k»->vd* £$ I? i ♦!•-« >) f . inn Uj, ;* thr h*v? man hV your »«*rv«o‘ "'
took her pari, uimI thude a b\n-ry time. and }| is modesty v. as * ^yjfV yof it *1 nm* d growth,
my — 1 h<»pv not snrrv r h>r \ “Best or worst ye** ma/ been.
The dear old ^|Ufe fuck, the -iWp mvotr ^InlGyoa aye ho
wild usyd to sd /oj da^ "m the latlr w in- h>i\&*r either hi jov ^rvir^; I discharge
»|v-‘v > s»ai auJ foil r*t> ^toHr^ V;(Mitho*Ail. sir, Your ma/o- dmd captain the
iii»jM 1 i.vi v* v been a bur niiiiti. Grand (a- $aUif.y With .Mi at he UvtnspM ihd door,
liver* nmd .'?*ehott. wyeGmwhaps* ns an a u Another. would hb^ilfoilglit ruled
hwr hemm * fa1*)?:. Hv. yerUmiiy made d the moltor; hot anUmur ever fun led witU
and hjb* Vv»* •‘Xi'm* Tor (neas^nnt d*wt#- my »/r«f<.df.dh**r until it Muted hi* way .
thm< following h*-?. r'vn,;y wh-iv h'^(\vh^ T hf* Stitty wus to Nidi Hie May tho
oit*er rwmow* hurl of /do? pat}. *mih polling morrow hi ■. A merit’d. ' ft M cl though |i*i
tier, m hi* ma&ei’ful way, !w noi as if he- foiu'td the friend of iris-- it*
frofhrd v: hoft hey fkav) mpofion wacMiy .diurge- of ship 'inorruit^h^ did Mot
\viniciv?‘.. and even; fehy of hm. Some- Mti fi a pilin'- d.AY jo-mo or ranters
times surh pmor.b'vo * / * •• i i v into • yum iplh Hitch W'hogy jai>. and qmrlo*
love, t? h d whu hi May** dibit*; dH t)h^r W seemed in
r .is 5>v,ii -:nh0«UUiv. hr
One HMitil r'c l - u i y.'n
A lid i Mfdct of iiivr . it Od Thd ^
Bui l hwo a' i /!} . giyindfalikr
irtj ; j^v*v;4** mv jirrsh h> of
ewsryno donbt, d hw ,hn tier lia.i] u.fi mvf <i
i.r<dhai Me- lirhls iu >r
Jn-v'ii of Ins in. la,'.
grand love ^
<>d hiaa). who
.her days amoti^
opl^dimh »1
ff<4 V it ow» • i*s . au/1 if m d
hig* her iu AvOMie
4v Lf.n)k you hu’<\ Votni^ mao, ‘ ha ^
hok, i*t* o.ther^
wnahl v.ailk vViUi
rrin(L OfiU lilt riiiioii «•> .jrnind.fa »!♦••• ;■ I:-m r,
i-y Ui.it liiyht
the house, ' why G-m.a y-u. »kV,>pY .j^n.:'
/* My fntiirr .says J iw;
a H> ha v f MiuhuJg
‘ T‘‘ your dauahM)r/’ udf/ifjir-v i*
§ <h* sv all y iHi, .' si,.'
ph ;oh*d, frighten
luadr: •».;■
•••I >-:vi»lti.2
’ tov:h.) v: . $U'i»
i> deyil, or
^ dot
hiiuii-1 y.,"< ' ' < 111 .• i.:;V-^Vv!.;-i Ot (:,
fey’V
m || vrav i-
i Nf i V* " •«. !I<! u |i,i £tirv V\tjv ' Vi.lii‘ J
lov.y.-.iii' ihyl’.:'^
W ■ slw v, },i^*
to s yv >tui!l li
/»t. . ^ ^
♦: hphh th'
• ^roTiml
,v Lain .
:iifi (iHlif. ' I ft ill
it. !
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Original frcrr-i -
UWIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Go gle
5
iae, Jior lightly her lips <vHli his 'ITolilike jytMJdtn.gsv •
.1 think she eneid at i i i » V. V»* t V prone sii ally, do ] — i i,is ivjh* ,i)h>v>' all/
is*# t*.» meet him at s»nuh'**A'rt. v Wlxwe >v/xWjng 7s? 'it??* gUe iktei^ipt
WtSik oiAj be -siiiv the n-b y*t>f out *h, s,ti|fpicjViu^ly.
ofUm tsi'&i htfim*- g r^bVl futh er kepi tire vbOutNNwas the bold iuiswyrv. Vh
tryst.. Iln had spent the ^ ^ We! " Whivev<H* heanl of - -' <* .^* '
in.. the tavern rontunui vbonp ow* si on ally* 4 Yon heard. 'r
slanting his ev£ toward the An//?/, h{»J ''‘•YrsA ->ml Jj ought lo Iv.uVe you in-
others i-^e seeaiin^rly ^hsco bed if* chasing fetaiitf-y/*
ifrm- pious ranter? tmifc mm n* many Hut. instead of halving, v/iil marry:
holes- ufi.c! • earners m his whisU’ihgb lijisr me tonight/’ he said; kissing her.
could fuel ; Why she consented, lovers mutt’ zk-
; Tako\s her easy.' his l;uuiioi,iI vvhis- uhtuk ll was not grandfather* insist-
jeered to an oh! gray beard uT the Snlhf'ti'' f ore alone that won her, I auv sure, for 1
crew y to which that worthy /rcsjiobflcdv'- ,^^'''^ hoy f»qu?i]]y positive vvith a maid
tyiib grw*kt the other day, and she 4>idy sc^ftyd^-'J?^-
A s.f*h Orman ti!vv;»y<$ do was the vvilHmry iii kisses, for that, boy
Hn might hxt v* pan '.hied this reumi k k iss<-d bis maid, ami .she cbm ted him,
P| af ii-Hi grandfather ^cowling at the Perhaps it. was the moon: or, if a lover’s
o i a a-,, iue ivshirno^ two hours 'after moi.m he full, some happy .ennjuno4 iota of
Now. No one did se/e hovvover, no hi a thenars;, or the birds had mis*crns*i;d fbo
d<k>r ^orri^wliyHj ift sky*- that day jp pVA>|>^iy f a lpv-.
closed, and lin maid, sopped through the er>- foKnoe/ I know tie re a \tpugi..- in
oves anti looked at Imp .-htmns the gab'e tlhi art of love/
There vAsa no n»orei. ir»U' dlte fall Wars lit Tip* s u\>ir ua* less umnagentde.
tier- Ut\:& a> she lifted lt, w>:ith lUteiupled ** Never do! ueyer dn‘ he declared,
tib? y W \vb(*r^g^tjadfe^ier -udyi Ids errand,
ived by * lueolhb'Ss ' I hiihnet/' ■ Why inn h grand kg h«*r I'dUtjVy ashcii .
'‘f';tiii!-(h grandfather iangbed us 'he. ‘ Vhvr» >• « In* faJlno. hr one thing
>:;:i.Ttrlied the gw<w '■ iy .-op e ord, or ! w <>, M What \iH%M to do rk,b if '*
*> vrov n.-.r jp I read '.n' nv.> to-night The vicars narrow <:v- opem-d art iris,
•—ooe ot which i:» ran., the other hop. . bufche only pin, Idv .ohjr eu<m aopfliet way :'
"TiiC maid is.iKii-of ' ’ / "
idb toive your father^ tty tins June he M l aoi *' sim dps yv ■fek, ipfieLJy rcddeir
held her iu>nd. a ml they were walking in^ a OMUm-m aher for her f<»nv;mlin*>5i;
toward Hie parish i^ft ;ihil vVrHi^gp, but of the parish riyglyter
’ 1 begot in sr»y ■ tin. s’ niormng/' wrraiuh vondmrrd her by a day. to the ungaiiant
hithrr eo'.hiiumai, . lightly , ;s‘ that we would v i me h * j »sr o » n u i. ; 4 re •.
g«» |p the '. vending . Nuxe u was rh : bin,,-, m* one could
‘ * Wedding d’ th« .maid i|iiarj^h her, by nta^i^d ::ib y’EU|^«i'dil uot0 the banuk
voire /ulf1 of Scd^ surprise. vvprr read.
6
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
“I will read them, then,” grandfather
scornfully replied. And seizing a vagrant
paper, blank of writing as his young
bride was free of sin, be drawled the usual
form, exactly imitating the clerk’s sing-
song, even to inarticulate sighs, vocal
twists, and solemn cough when done.
“Well read,” the vicar softly laughed,
“but hardly lawful.”
“ No!” grandfather flashed. “ By Eng-
land's law you cannot marry us, but by
God's law you shall.”
Nowadays a man would take his maid
without the blessing of the Church. There
were some who did such things then, but
Old Captain, fiercely careless as he always
was of men's opinions, was tremendous
stickler for God's things. “What are
you.” he continued, hotly, “God's priest
or England's? Or do you part yourself
to each? If so, that which belongs to
God, stand up and marry us!” It was
awful politics, and doubtful theology, but
grandfather was so big and threatening,
the scared vicar obeyed, spared the regis-
tering, grandfather saying what God had
joined would not be tighter for that ar-
ticle.
Every wedding has a journey, if no
farther than across the road; but grand-
father had planned a longer, gayly ex-
ploited now to the bride of a quarter-
hour, as he led her down the quiet street
toward the docks.
The Sally , loaded and full manned,
had dropped half-way down the harbor
early in the evening, and only waited
the return of her new captain, who was
having a last interview with the ship-
owner, before she hove anchor and put to
sea. A single boat bobbed up and down
in the restless water of the slip. It was
the captain's gig, and without a moment's
hesitation grandfather set his wife in the
stern, and jumping in himself, ordered
the two sailors in charge to pull away.
One of them was the graybeard of the
inn, grandfather's favorite man, the other,
a new man, just from drinking bout; and
they obeyed without question, Graybeard
blinking solemnly at the stars as he sway-
ed back and forth upon his oar, the new
man disconsolately grumbling at the dry-
ness of the sea.
The dim-lit town, except for an occa-
sional song and boatman's whistle, was
still hs midnight ought to be. Stars
flecked the water with their waving im-
ages, and across the hills a soft wind
idled, damp with dew, and smelling of
the earth. A sob or two, stopped by as
many kisses, was all either sailor heard
in their quick row to the Sally. Under
her side, grandfather ordered oars up, and
line, and a moment later all were on the
deck.
“Now, my hearties, get your anchor!”
was his first command. “ If any man
see wrong in that,” he harshly laughed,
at their doubtful looks, “he may swim
ashore for better.”
“Are you the Sally's captain, sir?” the
new mate, grandfather's old second, ven-
tured, with humble twitch of forelock.
“ Ay,” grandfather replied; “she’s my
wife’s dowry.” And he laughed again,
this time, softly, to the little woman
shrinking on his arm. “ Now get away,
my boys! Grog all round to the bride's
health, if we pass the outer light in an
hour; if we don't,” and he glanced over
his shoulder at two dim figures coming
slowly down the dock, “ the devil!”
Every man saw as much as he, but,
without another word, fell into the ven-
ture, and hove at the anchor with such
hearty will that, by the time Old Captain
returned from showing his lady to her
cabin, it was up and fast, and the Sally
sliding out of port in full sails, to the
mad astonishment of the day-old captain
and the ship-owner on the wharf. They
crossed the bar by the half, and inside the
hour drank in the light-house gleam to
the captain's bride, to him. and to the
voyage. Next day the last cape dropped
into the sea. They had good weather,
and no barm; and in four weeks, their
honey -moon, the Sally tied up in Boston
Harbor.
Boston had been the original destina-
tion of the Sally. Old Captain never
thought of other port. He may have felt
doing the very thing he would not be ex-
pected to do the safest escape; or self-con-
fidence made him think he could carry
any venture through ; or he did it in sheer
delight of madcap adventure; or, with the
great simplicity of such men, he did not
realize that anything had happened to
change original plans. Going to Boston
certainly deceived the ship-owner; it also
simplified Old Captain's business, his
apparently straight papers arousing no
suspicion in port officers or consignees.
He delivered his cargo, as he had others
to the same parties, taking moneys there-
for as always, and accepting the usual
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
^ — 'more profuse this tibiy, m Vimt and sea together ; but tlie
honor vd ‘ten vxt.u*. chinked w 'a l l<* . Iiudc. -siulVi* from the
c mm-h of ‘Mu mo. n huh -%vas snug yW/jy, and limns pd»*d with mw-
being ^vnUsj 'by litrVcifUtivuuiry .soldiers/ skiU$, .helped by great -lip#, In u$ vude-
andhumied let go t i iv nr, Obi Caplaiit dij*- throated fdbntimy^ k?pt ihvm- tfwnu gray
m,, moduli the crew y&tli double bight and day HnWd vrhti such c.om-
parv0SMte .of Uvom eori^emirig to so tame fort, iu the dim Ityrhtof those edd f axiom* -
a vv-nbirv. ami refitting; f*u* *mnuer trip ed nights, that gave the ttV*-- a rimuc*' 0*
and cmigruinm, suded again. trowed by a rosy -padii a tfheek and )Ht the room
liundino' ?*f those sjxriu of whom corner for 'it&jgeiii'ltf ghost. Mig two would
America is uhvayn' dver-fuil. and passed sit, mid softly talk of those common things
io**vd n ub naves ami children. They which sweeten 1 i fe, or i 0 a softer si.hu me.,
stopped often ' oil. the way. Tint never f cannot undoesmed lion a slip of a
Inmhd mob Urn v reached Bte Bay and girl tom from fun- rootage in pu rental
Three Foxes. Liking thin wild land, life and suddenly Irn nsphmfed upon a
grandfather tU single; jewel foe hi,s liuxband's ntiknawn heart, can Jt\*e :}«$»
wife and colon y , njjchuriiigrme August grow, hid shed nes , and gi^ndmofher. after
day io mtp pocket m n harbor. the* day s of wilt; tvheu toars '■&>** easy Ih
l**hn»ldoi 0.1 tbe nliddh- the island’s the eyes and lips quiver at lib ’s umKu-
slope, ummwuvelv aware l lie maple roots alUy, dung \fr givmd father,, his. strength,
digested vigomha farm iand, hewing the so gaugli to us, being her protection. T}m
gi-ea* (i-oidcs into t»»my lodge, shingled grim «dd demon *$ gentle speech to her
>vUb fdn** ffOdi the sandy western point, mfo queer in my yar’s Tee<dt^f}^hV;
no »\ m>iniMlft>rhti?)r Before the foil owing ynUgh as bull would singing but ft was;
spring t }i«*i r axes had eaten gteyl hole* always; hi.s mamier tv* her. I stm imbues
3 ii to | he forest, piled, in their seftL^r* y ;v ; v
SIW MAGAXINK.
all winter umWne&Lh her heart wm ham
— niy father, her lu^t born v amV i\w. isf-
ami’s. They baptized lam . Jehu m wnier
drawn through the hr, si mn-crark. h> our
little harbor, (>hl -Caphim saying saU
was the lymper’ thhirg for sailor's
sun 8 thee then it has been a family
every man child of.jfttV ^nndi-ring
raw 4jt |i,Wing ilmiUghtlm sea/' as gnniil-
fiithfXvname*! , /. ; - . . ‘ *
'. aftrr Hm l«;> }*l is^i , ' iid OirU*iil
'mifail ref oy nMioU god pray j;
smi)i>{i.; dn hfe tlrst vayago an t of Ishtyl'th
f^yt$nv ea.vry i ?% fell |iyh) hyoilsx Tt *o
(shiUvl was v.i.,1 ii<M. of rgght. hat long lo-
cated by pillar* of bine sioiiico from t jio
brushwood lire*. wberh . tho*e loft behind
set the samydgy the ground W;
sfdrc they soil forth
*nia)] (>7jafi t <^x>f c^i- *owh
fuir-hry, 1 ; Boston, agaitf . the. r$*$iipy
end. There- be foh)*dy,j vuth , gonorul
' • stoi w? fift the
f*j th iAhgiir anil tfallieriiig ev|
.:ery wheto his u.vvu <-h rgo for JShrlb U*
ven, e 1’ii‘h xv ns ready. w«Ur hone* lutrvvM.
in tfAg y^ah-- falfy ;: y ; !
rturtwfg on .the inland. Kiuom-rmg in
SomI.o-to wninrs. Urn tough oih sailor pVfe
* try mg hvfcoeji himself a? one
“frfteV thW.;hi?vy fashion, but vhnosefog Um
Once he lia^hTevejr hrit
oven him like ;i tit. tie ghost, ,.i>nf lie opened
Ills. Pyeft with sngh a smile aim won;
got- tMfk'miust frXgg^^ylWfti?, .:
wnnhi is- no sane sailor wives.
Meanwhiie ihv Kt nntpy tdeagihgs ;w£r^-A.y
bpcmmtig hide farm*, loiliiyiuhm ^nd the
inmil>le growth of wild rhin^ ^offriiiHx
the rmlr gash of man’* fh*si touch of rfaw
’tUre , Tber# vve.ve ifiore eh ihirmi in gcrjhd-
fa dun's Mnl \oiiier 'h<vm$*h and oh the
hiifhe^t h»)l a iVw KforttfS; for lio *b:»d.
h-Hte ht i}i«? spying rtf jRt2 !QhI .
tain Sailed for IfuvUun. carry mg- .shocks.
Calling &l Boston, for son a* purpose. |n*
was delayed Uy dirty weather, at id lay
• two . days almtnMth'* lUl Kitgiisinn.m of
thoTe^h gups. Tlji^% hint |>eoii
■»im ■■nts/iml. un Oiiluv^t. hut Ihc had
monjotl wiaUic). If a re**el ein.isad, 'd»o
sailiHl awuy Deprived oiiCe by a vrsjwl
s^k-ine; wafyi\ Old * ’apjuiu lay h» for a
hoarding | tarty; hnt wU«h the jemU n:oo
askyd if he Ion! any Bfilt^h yi'Hiuoi, ho
;lkhwfi!?rf. SS.fw aj;tiiT how oily
;KVtl hfpg pi^v.-d l^yvyrh him unit tho
EhoJi^hlt^m- and hy |4jrr?k
hiiy. *#''**« \nn WifliVitii ;ihivrn :
dove, Thy seeo(ui rrcgTi t, W> fhv>ul a ) h vm :
Aii li.wiir alter i Ipr eoh! nod ol ^ jn>b*t
barrel thrust hi$ face st4vih*<i
• hull iHio oaiy-iMiKiii-Nw ■ Tim eahin \v*ai
full of men frvnn. |hs nei-yUhur
them Omybeurd and half a drr^rn rill»ekrsv
of hir original horw with life lirhUvnant
wrote home eegnho’iy, in 1 fic-Bi mf^rvaly
of prrfe.e henlth. Mnoo hiidaneoit wjth
H.«in >;n.N three «luy., i»> .a ste»VH». hot. H>W
his w i fo 1 i<t I * ad If K-xt a s? <il 1 1 jfV v oyagy ,
UtK'V *he Siiw lii'ivi.tcfpaiUyd y^Verhtkariif lh
«<nr ha rtnar hV a byevh y It h)(ik h hi r 1 n A trn
50 get the xviitrr on; and life pfctn ioiriJaU
ni 1 1 m> st id w u s i 5 > a t a i 1 or- hi^ ti u h >s 1 1 » a vg
tWHsdOn*! i piohiihg tn IhXh fjriu hlhh-h
flier *<ikr dtv-iuithili V friy nlnnevl, hemhh'L'
V
of v ioiis aoffuat i » Ui tteg u t thg.athe r cifHl
of t he pistol ; ,A '.'; ■' t: >
t have sih-u you heh»rfy'‘ 0{<1 C’i>fitalivV
sa hh, t a U i n g i i i t }pi « ntliop J i th < nit i^vi s
ip > aii eyid »r^\y> A ThC- hviVtfghaht 11 ushedr
lmt only (h.oyta^dod thy CHphVih> pfifH>rs.
if51y papery ,f*>^ : ' %>.? y j* • • '. «1 tK%?;
jiroppr oUtcers, l* said g^indhBhcr, hhnl w
•.steel. ' ’ : A T i-:” - • . .
“ Very well: road mine/ ami the i ie n -
'Amy ' a I ffCi
yyA>yyiit^|i®v: ©fA
temml humled ftijfii a warrant authorizing' not be the fickle jade she is if she were par-
any English 0Jh*t4er to .take «m»- », Mfri&m iiai with her faenrs ■ nud now sbt* Kmtlfd
Cr.db re*- -vof the brig Sttfhj. anywhere on on the litutmiom/
file -high seas in Rtjgtamb »>r the onto- OkKAiptuin wa& tttmimxi bet ween decks
vt\&s, ami. Hrihz him hcfm-e the admiralty to the imimmuM. ;j single seal toitii wii.li
for barratry: signed anil sealed buckled euUas.s stand tug gear th This
‘’ Tibs is do 1 logit son/" Ok! Captain done, and the Ah /by* men . distributed
objected. soberly. seeing the only loop - • ammig f Vie tyaUdte.s flu* two ships kifi the
bole, and iv^liyhng its iiisiitReiesiey; harbor a.t jhe 'first easing of (he gale in
' ii A high enough n> flight/* the Imu- ea-'h other's r<Mi,|*nr, a c n‘ ov (i/>nr the
tenant laughed. *‘ The irons, men !!‘ and ..Englbdmran navigating the Stilly r
in a t riev grand fat l»er was bound and JfOld Cnphun mihdeb’t he. duUjoU*
•taken >/« the Englishman, lux^i rn pit niy-tl buion he did Tub shove it ITh ah' hVg
fey itrodJriwfc of the; ,SY///«y'j* ere\V, " w h*> grub from & pan beOvemr Ins knee* with
Ought to n»ake good EugliNh sailors/Vku' a.* hearty relish as if otf the eapfumb
lieun unta snretvd. table. The sailors. Stood their, guard in
ElvVeft ‘ y&tate httit brought the Sally k terror, tea-M/d into choking with fury at
«ipr no con so kit ion for the loss of ship lbs jeers. At night 'he. trained' against the
and daughter. ffe had dinned the ad mb qiiivyririg mast >vpd slept ir^oandlyais in
rally with his injury until half the navy the Sutlif * cabin,
>vas. *.»'n the (noknui for lus biag. Many Ho soon dbrov -ered. that the officers' of
<um^ her ungonsey.iis noisier had sailed /.the Eughslmiau wen-, ignorant of O ray-
on i of the jaws vf rapthee, hiv rery rue bear'd'* ami his t’ompa,rma/H -coniretHmn
eunsemu :m>ss.,s>ich i>n,*- n>( nieoftricksy with ytUv Solly* All of the uteri had
Uuroeu buck being g.reabu- safely limp stared at him in the Solly* e«bm with
i'r>‘Vuu:<f:uv The lumn n mlA Ibid njtvr- solemn MdrouMseu^ites mb passed him
view had been ty pteee of guile for. Old with apparent imhtfVrrnee after lit,* to
•§Vptimt • $ TjAr#igUdgv dblwjpUy spm led. as ahem tdf fcWr sit ip/ Kv, lei 1 Tfite their
6id, irhiksy 1 uok wauld moot! at once and when r>rm ]fapimued
> a, -he k/h>;?
impaHraiO as ihv o times, hm by uo»ifc-
ejtlvv^r ntuehiug anylioug rtdahag to
the Sofltf Finally i he duty feU upon
O ray bdiiKl. Semi ug iHiuseU upon a
IF.
Mljii
1 -pi^B
W s
10
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
powder-keg, with his cutlass across his
knees, that worthy looked straight into
Old Captain’s eyes, and blinked.
“Your glims are weak, old man,”
grandfather sneered.
A blink.
“ How are your ears?”
A blink.
“Half blind, stone-deaf! The press
gleans fine these days.”
A blink.
“ Gathering straw here and there,
sometimes whole bundle dropping from
skip-taiL”
A blink.
“Getting this way, with a score of
rebel Americans, a crew of rascals.”
A blink.
“ Why,” and grandfather looked so
deep into those blinking eyes there was
no corner in them, or in the great soul
beneath, lie did not see, “if I, the next
time you stand guard, should crack these
chains and cry, 4 Your captain and the
Sally!' half this crew would mutiny!”
A solemn blink.
“The fools!” grandfather shrilly laugh-
ed, and, without another word, fell back
against the mast and slept.
Graybeard’s next night on guard was
dark as pitch, and made no lighter by an
apparently accidental falling of the ship's
lantern, as he hung it in the beams above
the prisoner’s head. As it fell, Old Captain
leaped, and straining mightily against the
mast, snapped his chains. When they
broke, the cry, “ Your captain and the
Sally!" rung through the ship. Knock-
ing a dazed man into the stanchions, Old
Captain and Gray beard sprung on deck,
to meet half the crew shrieking the cry
deliriously. Before the startled other half
found their wits, a cutlass at their indi-
vidual heads made good sense of submis-
sion.
The cabin had to be stormed. Grand-
father’s awful blows, his arms bit into
agony of passion by the broken chains,
soon drove in the door, and they rushed
through, unmindful of the ripping bul-
lets. In half an hour the unwilling liv-
ing had taken Old Captain’s place below,
and the dead were in the sea.
At dawn the Sally was brought to by
a shot across the bows, her watches rear-
ranged, and the course of the two ships
changed for North Haven. Old Captain’s
intention was never known. The island
would have been no refuge. Possibly he
sailed for his wife, planning another home
in farther seas. This is only guess, Old
Captain himself pacing the quarter of
his new vessel in gloomy silence. Every
sail was crowded on the spars. The
ship was put into spickest fighting trim,
all of the faces of the men slowly turn-
ing into iron reflections of the master's.
There was no singing and little talk.
The luck or folly of their deed belonged
to all.
The fight occurred in mid-ocean, and it
was two weeks before they saw the Bay.
Old Captain had slept none for a half-
dozen watches, keeping deck and course
in the cold light of his gray eyes. Hurri-
cane and the lower Fox chanted their
usual chorus with the sea as the ships
went by. The hills looked on with wont-
ed silence. When they swung into the
reach, every islander began to cry, “ North
Haven!” but stopping, stared with blank
surprise.
The little farms lay black upon the tilt-
ed landscape. Every house was burned
to the ground.
“The war has come!” some one mut-
tered; auother, “The English have been
here !”
Something crossed Old Captain’s face,
moving the rocky features into an awful
terror, but passing, left them inscrutable
as before. He made the little harbor,
and anchoring, took all the islanders,
and, alone with them, went ashore. They
found nothing — not a baby's shoe, or a
woman’s handkerchief. It was like in-
quiring of a grave. At dusk they re-
turned, every man climbing heavily upon
the deck, and pacing out his watch in the
dumb way of man’s sorrow.
The next day Old Captain piped all
hands aft, and spoke:
“Lads,” he began, “we are going to
fight England. Some of you have fought
her before, others will quickly take the
chance to revenge the cruelty of her
press gangs. If there are any here who
love England more than we have cause
to do,” and he stretched his hand convul-
sively toward the fire-scarred island, “I
will put them aboard the Sally and let
them go.”
There were no cheers, but the sombre
silence was too like Old Captain's temper
to he misunderstood, and when the Sally
sailed, only the prisoners went in her.
When she was gone, they overhauled the
Englishman. Gray beard, now first mate,
Digitized by
Go igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
s'*r«p«ng otf i})K original with his p*n\s. and i\ gutted cabin ite)il hy another
iW$ hands, simTi'iftervvard* vedeprng the body. Thin feathers of gray
&&*•{« w Uh not imu. (Tie smnkin^ pen in smoke. blow from l ho hatches, aeenmf*ay
hi* Immi fnptliiig nnnthdr Salty. Be- iiied by crack- ling, si hi lance. Sowing Kip
ckped and ♦ •h?ao, they caught a mid nighi the dead in their, hwn 'sails; whh doleful
wrod. niul. hurried by \\- hub' kvft Uie Bay, fouoteuanres they buried them with shot
the ^hueR and On* hills far behind - by for company mnl went. ‘ on, lea *. mg the
nnsrni'ng.. and. ih ' un^dher day made Bos- vessel m the hres The ship Was -kept
fan. in silence That afternoon, hut when they
There, Old .Captain 'learned that the e?lh£ki the pirate KoghsliM-an in the dusk,
Bpiifeh occupied every thing .to (bo Bar. the gunners. pmnped hit with incessant
ainl Hiathis yvifnaiid eoloiiy rif 4h ver w’tn-e -shot until :>hw sank with erorv uuvu
{9rtfl&b)y nhoimi sawn j>rlson^hij> at Mali 'aboard AnettVaril thief nut the <’r<nva
fay nr t)u- Bermtnhvx. As everything t hat of 'lhHr prizes ashore ' <>r into- buyr;<v hut
rTnihf light was welcome. thrrr* was no ^hyays sni i 1c the ships — “ cb*at>ifig the
difficulty ohtaio/ng If tiers of inaryut. '&?&„*' \i% they ’ hearse lv .*, aid aniung them-
Arfned w hit tlieTu, «%nd Isdter vT sled and sel ves
powder in full luck he cleared again, All '^i- oi.t r-.M; hghTmg; Halfway
provisioned for two months. between Cape Snide and Man an they ran
The yijmiw w'/m* north by east. Oh! C^fe atfAipst $ h ;;]Kt I. fel I ?s I t .;• $£• sftfU^h gbps '
tani ponded to try Halifax Hrsl. OiF anchored >n the fog. Both were sur-
the third day, they fell b* vnth prised, hut instantly took hold, l.hvir grap-
a iniie eoaster. shot ripped and upvfi tug, pies rlashing as < h *->' felt together. It
w i- ,i riv»- cuthwsed dead men m lo t soup-. was too sudden for i.ho guns, so they
Digitized t . GO gk
12
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
fought with singing cutlasses and knives.
For a quarter of an hour the dead fell on
their ship’s deck or into the sea between.
Up and down the rails the agonizing
struggle surged. A dozen of the Sally's
crew were under foot, Gray beard among
them. The second mate's sword hand
was gone, Old Captain's face was split;
but the men kept their hold, panting,
streaked with blood and sweat, pressed
by men as resolute as themselves. They
would have died hanging to each other’s
throats, but suddenly Gray beard stood
up from among the dead, with face awful
as a ghost’s, and cried, “Your captain
and the Sally!" When he heard Gray-
beard, Old Captain flung his cutlass to
the Englishman, and with great blows of
naked fists opened a way through which
his mad men followed him to victory,
winning it before death-struck Gray beard
dropped from the bloody rail.
They kept this ship for another and
better Sally . burying the second of the
name with her great-hearted dead in
state upon her deck, Old Captain himself
ripping a plank from her bottom to let
in the loving sea.
When the fog lifted they made sail
again, and keeping from shore far enough
to be unseen, anchored a day or two
later off Halifax, waiting for dark.
With nightfall they made the harbor,
and ran alongside the prison-ship, that
cursed craft, familiar with the one-time
Englishman’s lines, thinking nothing of
such action. Before her officers found
their mistake her deck swarmed with the
Sally's men, and they were tied up in
gagged silence. But wife nor islanders
were on the ship, and Old Captain, pale
as death, ordered his men back upon the
Sally, the whole thing being done so
quickly no prisoner was aware of its sig-
nificance. All aboard, the Sally bore
about, and crowding sail, escaped, being
far from the offing when a booming gun
told the alarm.
Aware he must be at the Bermudas
before despatches conveyed the story of
his audacity, Old Captain set a straight
course, and never reefed a sail. The sec-
ond day out he ordered the ship to be
put into original shape. Among the
former captain’s papers he had found,
upon examination, one ordering the com-
mander of the Bermuda prison -ship to
turn over a certain number of his prison-
ers for transportation to England. Em-
boldened by this discovery, he resolved
to play the Englishman and demand the
execution of the order for his own ad-
vantage. The crew, taken into his con-
fidence, soon had the ship looking as she
did the day they ran against her between
Cape Sable and Manan. Many of them
were already togged in the enemy’s
clothes, and enough were found for all.
They would run the chance of meeting
old friends of the former officers, but
the story of the fight, of which there
were plenty of tokens about the ship,
could explain their taking off. A worse
danger was recognition by the prison-
ers, provided those they sought were
found. This emergency they must wait,
and did, remembering they could always
fight.
The ticklish adventure went through
without a hitch. They reached the Ber-
mudas in a week, threaded St. George’s
narrow passage in blazing mid-day, and
dropped their anchors under the fortress’s
guns as if in love with them. The Eng-
lishman and her officers had been stran-
gers at Bermuda, but Old Captain took
no unnecessary chances, hurrying his
business with close -mouthed despatch.
The islanders were there, and he received
them under his own eye, but with such
apparent savagery the broken-hearted
creatures did nothing to attract atten-
tion.
“That is all,” the English officer in
charge reported when the third boat-load
was aboard.
“ All!” Old Captain hoarsely cried, for
his wife and children had not come. “Was
there not another woman and her chil-
dren in this party?” Seeing the officer’s
surprise, and instantly realizing li is mis-
take, he gathered himself together, and
continued, with hard voice, “ Some report
of the affair at North Haven reached
Halifax, and I do not mind telling you I
know the woman.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the officer. “I am
sorry ; but we received a special requisition
for her, and she was sent, the day before
you came, in the Petrel" — naming a vessel
of twice as many guns as Old Captain’s.
Grandfather bowed, but said no more,
and his features were as silent of emo-
tion.
When the officer had taken leave they
hove anchor, and making sail, moved
slowly out of port, saluting as they went.
Outside, the islanders fell into one anotli-
Digitized by
Go igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
*r\ vjjji i**ars, and there svyr»* many drivers and ilm^n liun^, steadied- his
narratives rtnit f notes; c.lVu^e,. $i<ev dwsi. The &#ity
£i? irwne ^ui*a! V iTi t!,f‘ nr*-sirncy l yrept ;jpa*l lb* Petrels stern. abony her
'."vSftiaiik^ sorrow. *5d* AniJ kuteheb. At the touch \ 1 • ^ Kng-
’: Mw; * Me .skid, Vo their in<jMirin*r Utffe t^fei ltd) ijjfiw the Softy a « I* «/k and
look*.. smnn of vo »i me win my an American Win up in its piare. < o •<]***•
wiK know her rs they know rne. irig th# :• guppies; Old ( ‘aplijiu Ip i £o vhe
sioil k>*u* Mr ftftftt? Yon \m$# found wheehcuid leaped tlji< >n the Prlrefs deck,
jotiF vvjvv'.s h»h( i pud gr>*Hg fe find mine; alone
1M til*’? /"OM m 'E»*Lrk»ml. or- v “-:ih(] his *’ YnU havr-’a tftoiisitl. Jiltd three H;nh-
Am d.o Aped i) ihf'-iy sight. - among the dren from the Bermuda prison >inp' he
4W/n demanded .of the Pvtff-i'k first oilif.mr
To-' / r.-> / had the advantage of two ■’■' Ye*.’’ that, da?ed individual Kpmyh
daws' hut Old Capkmr hoped her t; Ifaud them oyer in ihrrc mVn*H0s. oi-
of tint chase won id ai- I \v i if blow you out of the w^lio- • ” A n*l
i‘HV hwn ?Hovi #aai;e inny. Gales f he Petrel the Sulti/'x hi their nuiidow ou
^0 * ’V i ^ '-i ; " ^ Alt ^iq | i eo: - the word.
Ho smp MVmuod midor >mdi Thw lmj pks< ndieevs <muh! do nothing
«hu*o»g * v.~r* ro}i* utul Uinht’v groaning bui • t><- v .
V^rfoUv \ Mr -suffiirititr Was xmg h*. W hen his vi?ifo iV‘n& . iu his arms, arid
him .void op imgod tier on, his d,mngcre\v si.iU upon .‘the ,/V/e*d> deck Old t.Vpo.in
in the reding -pnrs m ►.><;iov«l them to spike tlp.hr own guns,
winds hU iii.K might blow spurs uthl Whether umin !> rrifT*: spoU. m1 in paraly
• e*"H o- ; v a ‘V ••* v sis oT fear the Viii'nj*; was dope. Snitif,
W h'on ii»*A /V/rY'/'s peak pr re iced • j.jn- it(rr sai^nsi tcaliy, O^i retnrm*d to
horrzHHr, A*s <f. did aftm’ a week: of tfiH i »w :y Oh/ (endhio Ids w ; ie Mn,i ehihireu.
»r*ad rarwnc aod ho r Ink Ik siowlr rose to T!ih_ LT^a jpde- -.\ «-rr i»-s c-> M** '*->r;doi,ed the
;co ♦ afOido iwatU'd ftijr tuW in' Prhri i.,> make eavyand n»»o|i y wtddtrd
^'th d lie n.eaof to run her hev Off* \sh*Se Ms vrevv for.k turns taunh
'hv. ii Top i5hnrro*s Wopderi ujj f y 'vaile*! bd* and madlv drdOan^dVirO',
by ti i*'iyp' !''s,. ;V half '(hvzon hnihlhsl TljeV *uU<‘»i nt mn-e hn* ]-*u>s!oi» Lrav-
ahtvi-, mh r'lnr i-'vtr<'f sho-weii their Any Iny %v dve* and ohihin*n tle-r* . Old. (ypkut:
pnv^ a* :ao!rnvf*fv,i Erreevjuu-Y life Kn^r and Ins .rdanderv s.-i »m-} m ri'sk.n- i heir
Itsh day in 1 he S»iiiy if- . nggrjtjfjf; f*irh?«i lost ftM t^ues. Hinv da-y i-er»fr! Ihent.
dote hr** ih*ur b:#iries !h*' wo*iv. of tfi&ir hm.(| ere
( hiM Vtfrfiho ipdd th;<* wi>eef hnnself mm) part pf the, unwriHnti hiYiory -d pnyu-
wi*h that sohtie sympufhy hetwoen all teeritt^;
n w ■ Mmrnm
After f lip war, those left came ha- A to for ,tk*e|»~ water voyage.*., While gr&hd-
Novth Ha veil uik! built thr.se low walled mother lived, he always white red byre,
holism, •now grayer tjmii Urn *.ea Some A/ ter she died, he rarefy landed s>hy~
fciaid ashore, Oi.d Cajaoi n ?.heru where, daringly mmyif bag the storm mst
for a .time; 1 mH the wandr ri n% r:ain/» Ajpif seas, as if he stvaffhf a gnize;;
him in a little, and he refilled 1 1 > t » tnng Where his grave is. nr* man Jaiowir,
AN ESM Eli ALDA OF KOOKY CAN Yu JST
BY n R HT IIABTE;
AN ESMERALDA OF ROCKY CAN VON.
ho mhah o^x> (iX rn&, n c hs l k y
. .Wtfyy .
yx «&’Jr •
Go gle
V-lr
:higan
sifial from
KMW MONTHLY
il?n%e$ and rtiul^ vv er^f
mistaken, fimws and mule* \v<*r« heaves* Htievous miners. y.'hi>- cusimii t.* exhibit
hi K-^-Uv Oat> yuu , ami he attempted tu 1» is peeuUor perj'mm canoes, For nilhongU
Utilize i’ulv hy making hmvdriMV a suia'll Billj; foul ample AwkI n uil . snauwnw-
eari, . iddt*tt *vilh eimrVnHui earth. iWn s,mm.tig-: lie hml slid a oivnueb
hi* cUiun to U«e river. ftHly, rapidly limbing tor posier*; o-ird whem- vw a >:n-
gft'imhg ^nogth, Av-iy finite eip*ai to th *» ou.sy. a- mmem;avr a .political imbuing >v>»a
task hut a'lhb,': not his inborn jn^peiisiiy: ' V billed \* m the; s<#Uyii>ent bo vvus on
An imMiioioux geshirfr Ilio' past*
from the fi^st jKJAsiritr wajiyet fresh yoni &h*V
miner ^ Blljr to mieiu, in this way
const rwi'uitiy ybe usual
• , Once jeUiovetl
nib Hdil? iitej&jy BH f,v &&. si dTtl fed do iSmpSMl
in , ;st of. himUtft. It Vva&. w'hj&'peml ihul chut/l^v i‘HUV- monl o.f
so -great had lii> jvrOjn * i s i t \ l»>v.‘«»hMv mulrr i lie “ Pel uthi* lip* rmh.-Wilh a i »> *v bow,
biu itcOiuius him iwu^rd onv upon .file v^t^sVmU y
seif »,vas III) kmtre*' >ii‘V j inu»a ahead of Pcs was nslOHinb-i Uy ills i i.J>\tuiil reajyy
Jus eaH -out day 1u remove ^ fefei fehgh pearamv, a ml by his hpp;mvMl iy
fiVno the trail Pitiv ‘'Ohsi rucai the ini “f h ivnse* f./p;pM, me i.nj-y n ud b i;n;;od ! v ii t her
sloopciig1 min li playful idm II. ima from fV 'Hi .ii L> to ^iy {iiaf, he v; a>
liis- n-iasl»*r • \Vitlj ■ rlU' tnt*vi).;i.»i!t« t-esoM followed c)«^Sy in Ijt l f v‘( n [m* /ram then
Th*- next; ‘lay ^“Viums ruvpnMrmJ v.'Vr], >hvet inul pAtlct'd Kim. ;ool -mu-
a S\ liCelhamov, tup v, iiK\>nt HUUX F;v,m -inaoi in.y f>x»( iv»*n ain miiii-niV-
tint day he <va> iHe^and U't vi,p •' MM'-ky ihaoly ehaHvncty.
eiOgb ahi.»vt tpe viiin)^ troto wU^ti^PCt tf -1 y'$. ' f ye-
%ra$ only iurt?d i«»tUil|y liv V^’e^i. and uV t. \ \ derwe n I
rlca'lleuge the annooi My s
);•!*»»' UnilsrlrH
l iny v-wh.hIA,
| is i<*h ' v.-;m -i\ i-n» U: vyi l,v rih
gesttush I h . thl^v^ity. 3^1
;f'y :;. r;ii*r h>H(i
tho ^treep.
A her a hrfef ytd Jvh
of v ‘ pay gravel “ eve.f* |
‘{•<l Maft‘iy at i Ik
Lervievv , in m
Ki-h In’ nialiJi’Ho 1 1 v _ express -
d^timuidnv ami ihty nnhiv
inmAv Met \ \u
eef Utv grafi
Bthe of Urn seftlwjeni u*UU
AN ESAfERALl>A OF
EKfhio4*Tiiu
the olmmms moitleriUi U» mming M-l.tlt;- ' Rsrnc*rahia . by ihe Tiring llarrv \"
weni*.. he p»Y%utiy. IV^^Won ib •*lihttte-il. iJje" ysyheii pa&Hch»&er on .lip* imv
iHViv>i«.;ii of h» few Hog thvnvn vni famkhm Yuba Kill tmifc bis feel olf thy brake,
ami the .;nio|>rn-»n ohiHhiiS<ommis b vs |o:0' ami . iurovh h look of <1h‘ji si-onu upon
lieu 1 amt Km Him '(mi he hipl ujloyifett; life bo fthtberwl the re* us:
It w;o tliat ho sva.s sul) vrrp ilj
)u. ,n»*-r^ .vK'hnlt >J fa^tMrs.srsof tin-1 moon- ' It> <h;h Iffaohct] ^ *.;•{. »<Ht»«r Rock v
iihhii:,. ■Hfty.i'ft^.yrev.^riKsl »r* u. wvbl .statr:. Oui.$hj: tilt#
a ml; it : sf by mm or vwv* of t he How Yi-hl to take op with
in. nr miviioirnm HrO hi lOl^til Vet. ho hnu *
r .Uhh-- .:O«0 a fuir vihy i -1 of vhasf A NeVcrfhlMe** us H/iiii oS i)m <vO&eb.
%p* hhy Ityper Pi*v> of ihm roui^jrfj/ Jiooky C&hymy tbm.ihory w/i5
oo^vni io).»*:rt} hi*-* ha Umi v-*-; ? a savage- vjuiekly fol»I hy tin.-. v^H^foy
'(Ha.iiA. Iujm v iiioi a .;?htail -elk baited hy Y uba Hilly, anil-. highly nojoreil
pe.rebed utu’.u it, .irrr.^siiih: Sroek:*. hut al- hy tin* ^bservor oo i he box sent lUrk
;viv -r^M‘ ,A uwi.A.ot lh.it these ami »>th- hes$r was; kimwu to !«• a o-mv ylm-
*\r )*\&rfk\± ■&*.(• Uh hfttiifjil .
Mini $> »-ri h<*m\ ♦* h\ am U»n v
*omt
• hmunuyY* in rfemmited;
dmwiog & ih*w hivalU,
Ti«£ startled pi» wuVgi;r hostile
Vnui uu tin/ &W roliMeti (he
vi' iu" ^
an i'hny.va y ;-;bm. pines
lie Hh*?d h ;fevv iiuntjmi
yard,* an . i\ phpUfetf hollow
f »i Jiin lull rif the Vi \ idesl
gtwp.. ' * Jif ilWyfejiyiih ft
lit »> «?0*taihh ‘ * o liek 1 ayf ;i put r
hi ’* t>.nu‘v' Hun
>tivA itsay . ht-io hi her humid
aJrijvn jtfei’ Jhyul , • m,tVefrT; •
^in^nlar 4 tavy- puy$& hiy-
tfiyfr JWr- V4 l&rfi#
nr ,'lr r<.HM lily svn n^.hyh xviUt
fl »a\f^rd : ^ t : ■ •
•in^a.iyiV b^‘iirt«l>v Jt/tii h^tj^. ill
- i f »u :xjff :- ^ ii^-: ; .....
Xhy Wifil ha^Jc^-rouu h of (h^
Ha i )* r= 4m- • » i-o>ra! »iC»}lov,;A.|i.i
Mirr^tgnMMi^i.hyd »>C to*-
-• '• • m ' ■ *' *0 ul ibr Me ]'.
tv* l thoio-4 I^'h’h’oa? ium Uco^ath him*
1.0 ^
!iv<ai :\V>i:lV;.hfe.v,‘ihy ami mily Aluh^him on
ihvv ,uln.‘r m SkiiMar* He*, was
, • j.mjV-r "' • ;\irftW’M.)j ■hu.i o.-r ■. j ■•
ha»i r.tirii hiy \\ ;v v jfnih ! i»e ^ityrim rank *
ij ,. o; j.im-4 if« U\v v!«»? •jiiyx . ■k?ol a-.t .•*!.»' '• ! .« it \
h;h y ' ; fu : ! ifty ui ^ 1 k
aivti . hfe’ rvU^yu A*h f itUyn t i^»^, iU'fpjiH'd Uiirk-,
4;U d v '?ij ^0:V> |hl-> u ro tl tri k j 1 h* oj r n Hi i g
aw.'tv |'i,s r;hh iojV hah - -. hn-ii m ja
*
5 ‘vjUr!:#:
if / y
1
18
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
his seclusion unbroken. He was said to
be a half-savage mountaineer from Geor-
gia, in whose rude fastnesses lie bad dis-
tilled unlawful whiskey, and that his
tastes and habits unfitted him for civili-
zation. His wife shewed and smoked;
he was believed to make a fiery brew of
his own from acorns and pine nuts; he
seldom came to Rocky Canyon except for
provisions; his logs were slipped down a
“ shoot” or slide to the river, where they
voyaged once a month to a distant mill,
but he did not accompany them. The
daughter, seldom seen at Rocky Canyon,
was a half-grown girl, brown as autumn
fern, wild-eyed, dishevelled, in a home-
spun skirt, sun-bonnet, and boy’s brogans.
Such were the plain facts which sceptical
Rocky Canyon opposed to the passengers'
legends. Nevertheless, some of the young-
er miners found it not out of their way
to go over Skinners Pass on the jour-
ney to the river — but with what success
was not told. It was said, however, that
a celebrated New York artist, making a
tour of California, was on the coach one
day going through the pass, and pre-
served the memory of what he saw there
in a well-known picture entitled “Dan-
cing Nymph and Satyr,7’ said by compe-
tent critics to be “replete with the study
of Greek life.” This did not affect Rocky
Canyon, where the study of mythology
was presumably displaced by an experi-
ence of more wonderful flesh -and -blood
people — but later it was remembered with
some significance.
Among the improvements already not-
ed, a zinc and wooden chapel had been
erected in the main street, where a cer-
tain popular revivalist preacher of a pe-
culiar Southwestern sect regularly held
exliortatory services. His rude emotional
power over his ignorant fellow-sectarians
was well known, while curiosity drew
others. His effect upon the females of
his flock was hysterical and sensational.
Women prematurely^ aged by frontier
drudgery and child-bearing, girls who
had known only the rigors and pains of
a half equipped, ill-nourished youth in
their battling with the hard realities of
nature around them, all found a si range
fascination in the extravagant glories
and privileges of the unseen world he
pictured to them, which they might have
found in the fairy-tales and nursery
legends of civilized children — had they
known them. Personally he was not at-
tractive; his thin pointed face, and bushy
hair rising on either side of his square
forehead in two rounded knots, and his
long, straggling, wiry beard dropping
from a strong neck and shoulders, were
indeed of a common Southwestern type;
yet in him they suggested something more.
This was voiced by a miner who attend-
ed his first service, and as the Reverend
Mr. Withholder rose in the pulpit, the
former was heard to audibly ejaculate,
“Dod blasted! — if it ain't Billy!” But
when on the following Sunday, to every-
body's astonishment, Polly Harkness, in
a new white muslin frock and broad-
brimmed Leghorn hat, appeared before
the church door with the real Billy,
and exchanged conversation with the
preacher, the likeness was appalling.
I grieve to say that the goat was at
once christened by Rocky Canyon as
“ The Reverend Billy,” and the minister
himself was Billy's “brother.” More
than that, when an attempt was made by
outsiders, during the service, to inveigle
the tethered goat into his old butting per-
formances, and he took not the least no-
tice of their insults and challenges, the
epithet “blanked hypocrite” was added
to his title.
Had he really reformed? Had his pas-
toral life with his nymphlike mistress
completely cured him of his pugnacious
propensity, or had he simply found it was
inconsistent with his dancing, and seri-
ously interfered with his “fancy steps”?
Had he found tracts and hymn-books
were as edible as theatre posters? These
were questions that Rocky Canyon dis-
cussed lightly — although there was al-
ways the more serious mystery of the re-
lations of the Reverend Mr. Withholder,
Polly Harkness, and the goat towards
each other. The appearance of Polly at
church was no doubt due to the min-
ister’s active canvass of the districts. But
had he ever heard of Polly’s dancing with
the goat? And where in this plain, angu-
lar, badly dressed Polly was hidden that
beautiful vision of the dancing nymph
which had enthralled so many? And
when had Billy ever given any sugges-
tion of his Terpsicliorean abilities — before
or since? Were there any “points” of
the kind to be discerned in him now?
None ! Was it not more probable that the
Reverend Mr. Withholder had himself
been dancing witli Polly, and been mis-
taken for the goat? Passengers who
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
AN ESMERALDA OF ROCKY CANYON.
19
could have been so deceived with regard
to Polly’s beauty, might have as easily
mistaken the minister for Billy. About
this time another incident occurred, which
increased the mystery.
The only male in the settlement who
apparently dissented from the popular
opinion regarding Polly was a new-comer
— Jack Filgee. While discrediting her
performance with the gout — which he
had never seen — he was evidently greatly
prepossessed with the girl herself. Un-
fortunately he was equally addicted to
drinking, and as he was exceedingly shy
and timid when sober, and quite unpre-
sentable at other times, his wooing— if it
could be so called— progressed but slow-
ly. Yet when he found that Polly went
to church, he listened so far to the exhor-
tations of the Reverend Mr. Withholder
as to promise to come to “ Bible class ”
immediately after the Sunday service.
It was a hot afternoon, and Jack, who
had kept sober for two days, incautiously
fortified himself for the ordeal by tak-
ing a drink before arriving. He was
nervously early, and immediately took a
seat in the empty church near the open
door. The quiet of the building, the
drowsy buzzing of flies, and perhaps the
soporific effect of the liquor caused his
eyes to close and his head to fall forward
on his breast repeatedly. He was recover-
ing himself for the fourth time when he
suddenly received a violent cuff on the
ear, and was knocked backward off the
bench on which he was sitting. That
was all he knew.
He picked himself up with a certain dig-
nity, partly uew to him, and partly the
result of his condition, and staggered,
somewhat bruised and dishevelled, to the
nearest saloon. Here a few frequenters
who had seeu him pass, who knew his
errand and the devotion to Polly which
had induced it, exhibited a natural con-
cern.
“How's things down at the gospel
shop?" said one. “ Look as ef you'd been
wrestlin' with the Sperit, Jack!”
“Old man must hev exhorted pow'ful,”
said another, glanciug at his disordered
Sunday attire.
“Ain’t be'n hevin’ a row with Polly?
I’m told she slings an awful left.’’
Jack, instead of replying, poured out
a dram of whiskey, drank it. and putting
down his glass, leaned heavily against the
counter as he surveyed his questioners
Vol. XC VI II. —No. 583—2
with a sorrow chastened by reproachful
dignity.
“I'm a stranger here, gentlemen,” he
said, slowly; “ye’ve known me only a
little; but ez ye've seen me both blind
drunk and sober, I recken ye’ve caught
on to my gin’ral gait! Now I wan ter
put it to you, ez far-minded men, ef you
ever saw me strike a parson?”
“No,” said a chorus of sympathetic
voices. The barkeeper, however, with a
swift recollection of Polly and the Rever-
end Withholder, and some possible con-
tingent jealousy in Jack, added, prudent-
ly, “ Not yet.”
The chorus instantly added, reflectively,
“ Well, no; not yet.”
“Did ye ever,” continued Jack, sol-
emnly, “ know me to cuss, sass, bully-
rag, or say anything agin parsons— or the
church?”
“No,” said the crowd, overthrowing
prudence in curiosity, “ ye never did — we
swear it!— and now, what's up?”
“I ain’t what you call ‘a member in
good standinV ” he went on. artistically
protracting his climax. “ I ’ain't be’n con-
victed o' sin ; I ain’t a 4 meek an’ lowly fol-
lower’; I ’ain’t be’n exactly what I orter
be'n; I hevn’t lived anywhere up to my
lights; — but is tliet a reason why a par-
son should strike me?”
“Why? What? When did he? Who
did?” asked the eager crowd with one
voice.
Jack then painfully related how he had
been invited by the Reverend Mr. Witli-
liolder to attend the Bible class. How he
had arrived early, and found the church
empty. How lie had taken a seat near the
door to be bandy wlieu the parson came.
How he jest felt “ kinder kam and good,”
listenin’ to the flies buzzing, and must
have fallen asleep — only lie pulled him-
self up every time — though, after all, it
warn't no crime to fall asleep in an empty
church! How “all of a suddent” the
parson came in, “ give him a clip side o'
the head,” and knocked him off the bench,
and left him there !
“But what did lie say I” queried the
crowd.
“ Nothin’. Afore I could git up, he got
away.”
“ Are you sure it was him?’’ they asked.
“You know von say you was asleep.”
“Am 1 sure?" repeated Jack, scornfully.
“Don’t I know tliet face and beard?
Didn't I feel it bangin’ over me?*’
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Go igle
ALL H.ii'KV LAX\H\ OaTHRAED
nMH* A:\> Jack: 4/;*'\v a »4<1 plara^jf
4t the saloon r> Y<? a 5 i a t i> #;*< fi 4
yor? |! briok in da.ss now^. vi; h 0 *<ut)( bur-
*•'<■•< liv.-. “Ef yoO: htal, .Mi — X U s^e^e
■ '-'' ;iyv7''A\. v‘v '•
*■■ .hek r; “ I don't «)]!»'],' yiml JN>1 !;*•', demuieiy,
rih fhv it nbA lafchV f<£
.a rtf*, und
yfejEieaf<;iv. but soHawhai v| isapfnn n if ».tiy . Wb.hhnkko to tVmcn.0 rn »<*?«• suspu'ian of
iirr .v bark m Oil' TV*> did HOI l»«4V.iji^r roOHnk (<*U ;|,U mU'V<U'v)i>.,iMiss;*>|]f
*«M>> ti> hi ‘thing. amt It row*.' yff
kkiri ;ii]il ! j us< ruy ^lt am! hi hVtn “ * hlUiv. Iby-mm il that
i';»H i.ui )U> Lfiv.*- «t y»\ l?\ ynnrn uiji't loni h»-o | a m hnunoA ^ >{.}j J-.a: k On.w
it:*" rlw h*-M »{}.» >1 rohl sp<‘« inK‘iv y»t*. I>= y;»n h* .nltmt ]rotVor;iUoO»- .llte Mtlr
W hir] I It*' bo* 'I out Oil i If In »U* >1 »»F hho or.- v-.a.-a! yimtiyo vs utirv
o/isinri-. " I. had n bank r .tinny s 'limilf h; f mm*ji 4 in tui* shhjfKH in ainile oLthrlv.,
in - 0",^ ynhrii M0.4i}’ Biflv Xiu\ k*hny i#i*frh JnWintiyK £0*ke<l if be
|j ;»•-• A VOIJ -hi V.» !!> )lw yvjftl, b;y4. o4 lh,' "h&d ; **-vn thkly Uai-r<u<y '.v.ii, ihe
rl-r-rli. aiiri ]rvi r.>,\iflhy ^v. ;«i Jh ’ ’ ?*.>nX, ko UursAot; ‘v»n« km^h.
" Vv :•!..»'■ qiU^kK ha \ * ‘*r,;:ih*'r jy LOo, 0 t]W . of
•*' Billy - -vrny ^n.ii " opinion m^on*! ''hint The pubiio monk
il i;h-: a
An* $ i:.n
fr -;W H; ior?^ «V^5
oh. ri
i\$r:' Siuirfe
M k HfbiHc.
hiy pa^t the ^
jf * in* tht- rev
ulooh . Die i i a)>|*y pair V ia* ^oou
i*d ^ it? Va^s
jbtfslvixii? MP
h:?0>() I'-r 1 0 :
■tw H ? yt) 1
5#t
%kf -t. ,' ' ;
UiU yfnek cf
hl.wii i regret to nuy; vmrfwj*
Oi?t itfbt ti*e ixm
.k'-yTlitr^n
'\u\ his hhon
Ut, ln»t m (fre Itev^iTjuf Mr-
I^ iily J^a w liiuh {itul W
>hh liin ririi jy tovv
■Um V\' C[U) vnii howrv^; thill tlli
iii'tls hnn. ^hC‘ was h‘'h
ys.i in i t-hl i i t i ii
f f;f?>VV> « ^ ' f :hik;rTei'«i
tVrop-
lah.h'jmk
yy. ;s./.vo.-y :i
liatjou. ft h*>(M :-i. UoU hat
“1 picket! i\ii* u jy tm
Mtr * im iN'h i.hw?r, ’ I
hi b>ah* ffc.nivh. iijm. A man u In*
shy &i«i, sh WYvv i .sn I i
wu & pi * j
(in. pp sinnvf lit 1i*<un lily ^Imuhhi
' h<nh
’ i ; \ ; i ' thr.nrh Un
ap?il‘>a»M v.Oirl VrH.I !
it) Mo’k. )y( .*•■ *
nthiir
MICHfGAN
A.# ESMERALDA OF ROOKY QAmO#
howfcvor-. soon b^ettriip by a da," assisted by » |j*a tVu uiiug goat, o>pe*
imMT H'AM'yJsni: monivm cmlly trained hv I bo Rifled aH.P-'ss. -../The
ThV Mr W.iLhhnMtfr b/id igoai iv a old >Ja j )V;0 pi a y;c aft fey a fti I { Jirff 0#*. 1 1 i
orjra.tA/o»f a ' 'fstmk,'* of Biblli/al. tal>Un*MX tJu'fefc h‘K<k> ,M Oai t am d m»* m Hu* mid*
i 1 "L'lMiOMMWti fr ii* tin; IWnvAlt of ho* <?(•* uf Yb tao i^jiutifuJ Mary of
tyi n <* ww it* ><** gh t*u tin? Hnncktytt^aj Koltyt /ijiaf-
« f yrXU><.u% ■< ■■< ix\ y\xi< W I, ‘ ’ ') TW Kiodititf Iv knock tb.wn arid <*v*nHliroW lito di-
*>1 ^^rs?J '* fust-ph and J»iS RrHhron 1 . «ii£ tijif# krdiua; fnpUiifi Vii.'obu*. Tbo
bat R^K'ky Oii^iyou Was rH*)ro p;*vn* M iari y UfarvcUriUs STuMancU* Wt-Mild bo pood u«ih.I.
r.\(’(H‘i.l by lira iUio.ub-noofiii-o: mai l'oWy utifav U>K piUTuha^ of t}io Jloif, yob
#>u j vi |MT^oa\b"- •,b'pbtbah^ ,a,oj Atbrbnu by iiiul th>> Mayo* 0,f Skin-
R\*a^bp>i\A On ihfc oxooiMO of tin.* nor norsbuxin
babioviM/b. bmvrvoy »j b>nrui fhai fins An all Rorkv (An* v>;ay In-v^d opo*.-
labfean bad bK-.n b tUnlrawn a*a{ !»«;•>•' o.omMm’4 :*>.unnb lb** j^Kb f, ,lm-lv
hot • vi v<U lv<>« A v riomd o feu; £rOUp Every «yv*,
bihb - ,.-;vyVk\
r-o‘:, jjjfp ropw* ja. outivo' intent; jiH)olir*‘*i !! -ll . dnnV look aH if yor !‘olly
>o 4 bunded uiitl Bui it \> ns l hi* *W«n\ , titfV UH>r«* Uuui sho tvu&. u, <bo:
£*M-raih u-ji*v<.»d dhaJ. .lack Fif^o**A ?•*> btbiow */' sard.. oim*. trying to i*om*t*a! ins
uutruo»Uv LV sj|^ R^T*iT.tM»U Mr- rUrbyytl# lU^br u ^l^hl snrt*i\ ,"8lMcy
\V -abbofi'loo •v is :b ;bv b-.ftb)o *,»f ll. a*ui'f .vm>Ui. »o bo *l< a n ;u»y aaiM'in ! "
■. . any <biTiymyy‘^ud
a* ?n bo fi'Oio hot/- U was lit.it air Jack. wiMi ,-i smjW
Ida 1>‘‘V bav^ UU>v *\ h*'h umitliHr nradoot B Koyai- tli'l!. Tiiyu aiuu uasalj i)i«-sw
4^>wn«d '‘i'Mvtdtouvx of ibm* inyHleri^i y a v < ^ iy bub C By? i - « bn j i f?i r< ’ up M l>iy
tU>ii -d'tt.H fmiu libs -4 li Way tby Sio.taiH^nko fH
•QiW n v< a.s di>‘. al) ibv dunciiv'; Fuliy only hint. Ibfe go ui/
'Ry»cky C^ttVy'fu \yi»ii >« rbium Yo s« v,. i.bo iv? Kii'dor kiufc n shine to
h>£ ’iiiSfjnrn * ,- in Billy iie'feoW Hrii Sia-rbultl^: o A*f»r tbel
ltn> bnob-v: ,,< H*v»rtx. fl^pur't sou’ 'Vitb 54
taHibuwi too U-iWe a .gimi ^rtrbiobiM) vrilh
. \V\itiOU), ■ - '’ iv ‘ ■ , ; . •'.••' ■
ed . ■ '.A.> *'o-
b:'i-V ,**••-- y ‘ ;;;k ,
of .aTf^i'iV.ui a^u < Ay y
that • • "■.* ' j. A y. 'y.-yA _y.; •• . ,-.
up{Ku> 'y*A n:^Uforai -.waBfc X,
OrbtHfO^ u fbit^
\< as djs-
at HpckyC^if
ytfii wnii >1
obatm
fcfliir'f! '
F^t '■• in
22
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
day at the hotel, and she thought she
might teach him tricks. So she did , do-
ing all her teach in’ and stage-rehearsin’
up there at the pass, so's to be outer sight,
and keep this thing dark. She bribed
Polly to lend her the goat and keep her
secret, and Polly never let on a word to
anybody but me.”
“Then it was the Pet that Yuba Bill
saw dancin’ from the coach?”
“Yes.”
“ And that yer artist from New York
painted as an 4 Imp and Satire'?”
“Yes.”
“ Then that’s how Polly didn't show up
in them tablows at Skinnerstown? It
was Withholder who kinder smelt a rat,
eh? and found out it was only a theavter
gal all along that did the dancin'?”
“ Well, you see,” said Jack, with af-
fected hesitation, “ thet's another yarn.
I don’t know mebbe ez I oughter tell it.
Et ain't got anything to do with this
advertisement o’ the Pet, and might be
rough on old man Withholder ! Ye
mustn't ask me, boys.”
But there was that in his eye, and above
all in this lazy procrastination of the true
humorist when he is approaching his cli-
max, which rendered the crowd clamor-
ous and unappeasable. Theyioou/d have
the story !
Seeing which, Jack leaned back against
a rock with great gravity, put his hands
in his pockets, looked discontentedly at
the ground, and began: “ You see, boys,
old Parson Withholder had heard all
these yarns about Polly and thet trick-
goat, and he kinder reckoned thet she
might do for some one of his tablows.
So he axed her if she'd mind standin' with
the goat and a tambourine for Jephthah's
Daughter, at about the time when old
Jeph conies home, sailin’ in and vowin’
he'll kill the first thing he sees — jest as it
is in the Bible story. Well, Polly didn't
like to say it wasn't her that performed
with the goat, but the Pet, for thet would
give the Pet dead away; so Polly agrees
to come thar with the goat and rehearse
the tablow. Well, Polly's thar, a little
shy; and Billy — you bet he's all there,
and ready for the fun; but the darned
fool who plays Jephthah ain't worth
shucks, and when he comes in he does
nothin’ but grin at Polly and seem skeert
at the goat. This makes old Withholder
jest wild, and at last he goes on the plat-
form hisself to show them how the thing
oughter be done. So he comes bustlin’
and prancin’ in, and ketches sight o’ Polly
dancin' in with the goat to welcome him;
and then he clasps his hands — so — and
drops on his knees, and hangs down his
head — so — and sez, 4 Me chyld! me vow!
Oh, heavens!’ But jest then Billy —
who's gettin' rather tired o' all this fool-
ishness— kinder slues round on his hind
legs, and ketches sight o’ the parson!”
Jack paused a moment, and thrusting
his hands still deeper in his pockets, said,
lazily, 44 1 don't know if you fellers have
noticed how much old Withholder looks
like Billy?”
There was a rapid and impatient chorus
of “Yes! yes!” and 44 Go on!”
“ Well,” continued Jack, “ when Billy
sees Withholder kneelin’ thar with his
head down, he gives a kind o' joyous leap
and claps his hoofs together, ez much ez
to say, 4 I’m on in this scene,' drops his
own head, and jest lights out for the par-
son !”
“ And butts him clean through the side
scenes into the street,” interrupted a de-
lighted auditor.
But Jack’s face never changed. “Ye
think so?”liesaid, gravely. “ But thet’s jest
whar ye slip up ; and thet's jest wliar Billy
slipped up!’’ he added, slowly. 44 Mebbe
ye've noticed, too, thet the parson’s built
kinder solid about the head and shoulders.
It mought hev be'n thet, or thet Billy
didn't get a fair start, but thet goat went
down on his fore legs like a shot, and the
parson give one heave, and jest scooted
him off the platform ! Then the parson
reckoned thet this yer ‘tablow' had bet-
ter be left out— as thar didn't seem to be
any other man who could play Jephthah,
and it wasn't dignified for him to take
the part. But the parson allowed thet
it might be a great moral lesson to Billy !”
And it teas — for from that moment
Billy never attempted to butt again. He
performed with great docility later on in
the Pet's engagement at Skinnerstown ; he
played a distinguished role throughout
the provinces; he had had the advantages
of Art from “ the Pet,” and of Simplicity
from Polly, but only Rocky Canyon knew
that his real education had come with his
first rehearsal with the Reverend Mr.
Withholder.
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
MARY
■8V JUTH MrliVEKV -STf; \ f! 1'
Go gle
Original, frcrri '
JNIVER5ITY OF MICHIGAN
ERE CHRIST, THE FLOWER OF VIRTUE, BLOOMED.
BY LOUISE MORGAN SILL.
ERE Christ, the Flower of virtue, bloomed,
On Mary's breast the Blossom lay.
’Twas on a still and golden day —
Some glamour not of earth was there —
When Mary knelt alone to pray
That she The Child might worthy bear.
Her loving bosom heaving fast
With pure emotion, soft she cried,
Nor saw the angel as he passed,
Nor felt the angel at her side.
“Awake! Arise! And oh. Rejoice!
For unto you a Lord is born.
Hear’st not the chanting Heaven-voice,
The harp, and the resounding horn?”
The star leads on, the shepherds rise
From midnight vigil, solemn, still.
With crook upraised, with 'raptured eyes.
They follow over vale and hill.
They follow till the angel-star
Doth stay, and looking down they see
A humble shed where cattle are.
Wherein they enter, curiously.
When lo, a mother and a Child. . . .
Pallid she lay, as lilies lie
Upon an altar. They, most mild.
Knelt down before the Mystery.
About the mother's youthful head.
About the Babe's, the golden ring
A glow ineffable did shed
Upon the shepherds worshipping.
“What marvel,” said they, “that our Lord
Doth come as humble-born as wo.
As stark, as poor!” And they adored
And yearned for him unspeakably.
With joy they lingered at his feet.
Then to the wondering flocks returned, — -
But oh, the homeward way was sweet,
xVnd their glad eyes with visions burned.
Thus came the King, Divine and Doomed,
Unto His own: and thus we say
Ere Christ, the Flower of virtue, bloomed.
On Mary's breast the Blossom lay.
And for that she the Tidings bright
Bore, with a saint's humility.
So beautiful upon the height
Should woman's feet forever be.
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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Digitized by Go i .ole
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HOW SANTA CLAUS WAS SAVED.
BY MARY T. VAN DENBURGR.
MAMMY and Joe, her husband, had
taken care of their “ Miss Sal lie” and
her little boy and girl since Marse George
went into the army, and the faithful ser-
vants had borne many a burden and
found a way out of many a difficulty
without letting their beloved mistress
know how hard it was for them ; for she
was sad and troubled, and they tried to
spare her as much as possible.
But now, as mammy prepared the table
for the evening meal, sighing over the
plain food she must set before Miss Sallie,
her heart was full of a new worry, which
she could not keep to herself.
“Laws, Miss Sallie, I do suttinly dis-
like ter trubble you, but I don't see nohow
what I’s gvvine do ’bout dem chill tin.”
44 Why, mammy, what is the matter?
They are usually so good.”
“ Dey’s jes de best chillun de sun shines
on; dev ain't one mite ob trubble; but
Christmus is cornin’, an’ dey shualy ex-
pec's some gif's like dey useter have; an'
no boxes gwiue come from deir aunts an'
deir gran'ma dis yeah, an’ Marse George
he off wid Marse Lee, an’ we ’ain’t got no
gif's fer dem pore babies. Dey kem in
in v kitchen, an’ dey whispered up de
chimblv ter Santy Claus what dey want-
ed; an’. Miss Sallie, dey wants right
smart ob things, an’ we got nothin’, an’
how we gwine git ’em wid de country
full ob Yanks? I study an' study, an’
’pears like I don’t see no way out.”
44 Well, mammy, I will explain to them ;
they are so thoughtful and considerate I
think they will understand; and when
this war is over, if my husband comes
back — ”
“ Marse George gwine come back, hon-
ey ; he cotnc back suah.”
“Then we shall be so happy that they
will forget the horrors of this dreadful
time. I think we can trim the house
with greens, and perhaps have a Christ-
mas tree; and there is the white sugar I
have saved— you may take that and make
some candy for them.”
“ Jes a lil U candy fer dem chillun dats
had eberything money could buy! But
we cyan’t do no bettah ;” and mammy
went to call the two innocent little causes
of her dilemma to supper.
While she was washing the dishes, a
half-hour later, she thought how little
was required, after all, to make the chil-
dren happy, and she brightened up con-
siderably. However, like many other
conspirators, she overdid the matter, and
in her auxiety to have the surprise a com-
plete one, she determined to lead the chil-
dren to expect nothing at all. So when
she was putting them to bed she stopped
their chatter about Christmas and Santa
Claus with —
“What you -all talkin’ 'bout? How
you think Santy Claus gwine git t* rough
dem Yanks’ lines? Spec's dey gvvine catch
him an’ kill him. suah ;” and she took the
light and hurried away to escape their
questions.
“Oh, brother, how dare they?" came,
with a sob, from one little bed.
“They won’t,” in tones that tried to be 1
manly, came the answer from the other.
“But mammy said so.”
“ Well, mammy was wrong about the
but terfly — she didn’t know it changed from
a caterpillar — so she don't know every-
thing: and I don't believe even Yankees
are so dreadful bad,” asserted the little
boy.
44 But, brother — my gracious, he’s
asleep!” and poor Ruth tried to shut her
eyes up tight and forget her trouble; but
she was wide-awake an hour afterward,
in spite of her efforts.
“ Oh.” she said, suddenly, “I think we
ought to. I think it's our duty. Brother,
brother , wake upl We have got to go
to the Yankee captain and beg him not
to hurt Santa Claus.”
“ Why, sister, how could wTe get away?
Besides, you would be afraid and cry.
When are you going?”
“We can’t tell mammy, 'cause she
wouldn't let us go, and mamma would
worry; but when we get back and tell
them we have saved Santa Claus's life,
they will be so glad. I think it's not
wrong for us to go.’’
“ What are you going to say to the
Yankee captain?’’
“ He is a soldier, like papa, and I’m sure
my papa would he good to little girls and
boys; but we must save Santa Claus any-
way."
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
«S HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
The very next d^ylhc opportunity they frightened and trembling, but who bad no
were Watching for came Their mother idea of giving up lbe object of tin- if v t
was busy curing lor her. thr r w.j rbrklreft: " WelL u»v hearties, what brings you
idipptal dil\ ll W;is a long wui); u> (he bercT' Hm cheery voice and the. twin klfc
Yuukea viimpi but .they inidged ferayejiy in hi ji reason red the little ones.
o;3 Pb:uM\ avg want: lo srr the euplaifth*
• l!;-iv orrd ji&pa unii^t b& when Wo gushed Toddy..
maytrhosr • Tltey; ty-ere ..led . past row% : of- .t<W.y , the
‘ Yes. Sometimes they \vnlk all day. otbtfr suf diets. joking With Owur guiim •>.>
Oh, Teddy, there ^re tbe lehtW 1 think 1 they went by. and a flora while, flo-y
‘i. Y*‘- kimw quite how, _ -tl.i^.y •> ifit" .
You ln'orrosthl you vur not going to talking with the Yankee captain ami u Jb
orv 1 iug liiui their stpryi.
Plan 'hot; That big soldier is coming "The captain bad a cold.'* Raid Ruth,
Over Imre '! in telling about it afterward : ‘Gn> coughed
V m|l soldier came to the children, now and wiped his eyes, ami he said to us-;
Go gle
Digitize
WFLfc, MY aKAtmM Ai HAT Blit.Vvjy TO# U KH C
Yru* Imv* &*?»<! $a?»U Chois, ami ail oul of flm Box did not make them hf^dHh
the link rhn«Ur^ -IJ tin ^vuvUl will be liummiv^ oiiuiy.
-raU-Cui :<<> von; b)>t we were rob ir»*in«r to * Dev', tin W onYrf i»b s» ohijhih || ||p
kill. ^DiivOl* UO.'wr i.o- m»J so in.ni hear? mummy v What dvir pit i; oih >:..••
: wo wero just ^onv^r io mim Imn (»rN»uo when be tint ieHtr w bat Mis* roiTiie
m far vv!iUe>. Tful along home now. •&}***£' be eves 11 h\» n
\<-'*r v. dor fmHHJ is with ymi to Avh'ii jo- <v-nls 1i*>u t dem WdvmWy-ruohfa
Loo* v<f^ a.rhdv bark. ” off , mv Jar Win !•: s\ JkU oujf’fj ain't no
\ o*mplt* .»f Jnter, h« the day be : pm* wife trash, >uahVyer- haw «i.‘
forA y the Ivi 1 1 soiiii.*r *;ame ;«* lame aDm-v-. ,nA( Vi |.t o i ho little hrm
the fam & ,i*»ain. He was dri vsu^/.umJ fa*-V‘ ami AKf*u* fi*ov - nAv it pp, mm l-V
fnmi in'^ *Mi-( Ik* tnwk a l:o\o>. U.v,. ».?»< •.«ti«rsliiA/.s iVlitCfl had mused the war w<*. |
the rMfrf1*^ yv'ritt^o, SJUiitn ^Aftled, ur.nl Ojhi' North ;vmt HoutH hV
a invent litirrj; rid* yenr; «iyl|e Vft with add IttftB ;tVtd T*>d4y
the ;>. iHik.ee oaphioo anil asiied Ini.u fv» i«»« nn'Mluor Friend ! <•» .-apudm ami bad a
w;.» ill to Ruth and Teddy." £<#.h1 with a if>\x tears, as
S** .the: Cnldrea had a trrand Chi i'^Urtas, they walled their lirst encmnde# With
aud even the m& rtfel lou* thin'#* that name him.
•O/lgiri&l fncrr
J3igitl:|et
Jft‘JOrfh Op$
f|MVF K'U-i shir »s sea rcoly the place in now. ami the company is fUshanunY. but
I. .which one would look jo, fijitl' much -fmCJha*«y who knew b. ii 'has n mrfmxi
heed to i lie s(io-W.«'4im}. the <ratvnth'K ami very intimate interest that ^ til 1 .keeps
of iifV We h;wc heari* of the ternns of its mmnnw warm. Tins was due HKbe
i.>hmIh*v: •s»‘\voi2 hay :>ml nip lit- amid of Colonel %Varing\s Stmu -elruninp Dri
*f\ sopi^j theatre* thy people you
>?«<£;. ee^ervfMl, dmd cojisyioiis of
i\ ho t 1 1 » ese nien we re ft e »r*-
epyy thyuh y
visitor 1 ever knew h> he ueerhwtetl
To avtv one' >• ho woio for i he s?a#»- and :.t lady who earned a hoi Me. of smeiime-
for the nrt, rd ynv oieyei- in America, the says. The eiunavh of ■} h e was searcely
theatres of tfirr livo^i Konvy ;t»v of spo- obvious but H \vas put as M*e. Ur>/n;m$ ho
ciui intend Cnee- Mm haunt of In Mm end. vvv cane: io Monk very well of
the MovVerv l>oy. and 7,e;e, his ‘‘stead). * the lodiuo (days urn] Actors. amt if we
they a,v. !)(1>v jhu memo of too*ii.n actors, thought nnduiy Well; of JMnmr it- nnhi
who ye- you u poml ume ift a, j most. have keen because in (.ueonsehmsk
\ihMi
'these fforiyM plays ufc ttrillen m *Y(hv ■ They were for the most, parr men ] f
York ,tml Mm* si£ti of a ^enuinoarlClic tips fart, had any special ^ipmtlesnee {
impulse- .They »r-yht. Urn life, ami Mm hi>- way umo' rpWe sure what it was;, yet i?
tury -of the pypplp yfhp warm to see is deCahi ybo f the uv\% m pH*i£ m&tv :
f hern . They "are v-mm? and often absurd ' prumovc Mvgv s have always- ‘in am ■' mas.
etfouyh . hut when tbcoHnmti rm-s down, cUJutthaml Uue can Uml fair Warrant for
U candid observer \viH ncfioit that Mmur- saving fchnl when women im ye come m
spin f. I yto core v i tal and spontam ons fur a slrarty ito * <\ traVo lost, pritnui forces
in rhem ih.oi in the pjavs of the most ft as yaCo friho no don hi., dual in Ihdjnn
pros]< r*Hi<p»pl.»>WH theatres. comma n j tie ^ w omr o "are ofn fo he O.o-
T’Im* .Vnirncaus win; are familiar with the vs .at an ^udy u^e. h-Mces oO’e sad iru-
Tt»e. Tcju:o lnVlia.no miLrhl a l»ru»st he cmi nt- to many bifid* of pi ye ami
on one s finders The thcatf't* i*. .?h:v.sct| • v.lu.ws. Yet.' f!iwi e was .ahva\s a sprinl '
re ry." he.-
.• ; v'yATt'; >,'0
V r‘{y kT'rrkCo'WCN
CCf;:oC>V'wC
HO\V THE OTHER HALF LAUGHS.
ever and if the actors. stumbled over {Leiir
jCptl^r‘ lines.. » >r over Urn mule on! ranees and
mddm t be of. the- stmavry, he -laughed Softly
f L v \veiv tun, but w-U;h w bat; a dilTereuve : When
'ling, of wmue n. »ml nu audience
saw Wins \viUwqt * baby dr two.
nere guod bnbifcs* Hfilt nevev
,.^v, . . , ,.v HIHJim
..uuliv, mey h *>!<<*{ at flip light* anil the n vmne.nw i-rplfv U\vv\uiX passa ^.^vv^y-
imltunit people o.ti the stage with those body imde a. row, and then on* the ire
marvelling; eyes vviy wosutd uil ^Ive, so stunt lushed himself r£ujbt
Utdtdi tj&>T ;^H^;"a^auVGu»W when the ‘ngain/ even Uhnurh lifts took several
tipfid iU-hv h- hni 'nppied o\hk4& iHfcapu seconds/ \vbtlo the actor;, ■,cotnplaee»»tIy
w wa-h passed L-oid- waited
<m i .^; : a:* u tf \nm As iheptot developed, the anilithnsft..dii>-'
Wa*Ahth^ . i ihiiHktlby ;k^^v rMSsed ii in hripf nmUnutH. ^Thteplay
be $r h*}ri$ervH}ii} is Ofrd/n/ the Yypite nib^er/1 one man
thn Tm-tpicsf dung ni flit?' world was to eXplaiUKHo ns. For- though scholars may
nurse if. 'puer again There are no many duLr as to nhtdlun* Shakespf are meant
m-ov: tr.Mjtfi* seiii-.' thuiss tu the world the Moor fop a white m* a bhtdivwiiour, pji
thau h )hie> even vs IftUl you have ill O full doubt WUs permitted . ill thfe Tnatro If.ih-
llaiiau eOmmvnmnt. Or if yon don't .'ami. Iugo was a' pin me favorite. The
quae $$ so, .it is still tin pul t of phiii»6- horror • with which liis vill&uv was r<*
pfey to recognize thijt life eouUt pot be >ejttetl d&turt&d my euhtre&ljou&i ideas
without th£ijtv '• , . \.l \
Uifcjfcsts '; -
liwyvryie pu^cd •. rt>4 hd, li»£ hr tt] in t * l
Colon* of *'* a, eh Wure clone wee ill ihc SH~ - /'^'/ \ /
jnire^ nmi highly charged id»ft drinks, -i’v -/ . :/-/'y\',V
equal /rn gkunoiu . w bw-h r v-o the
men dfUak hut of iloV ImiUYs. TJityVy . *i,
were nui half (wui-U»at is. if one was 1vV^I
iwii resolved not to >(ia)n at a mi-, . |MBB I
TWJCWt AttJS MOH6 THIU KLESUMK TiU.NtiaJ
THAN
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
'■'! nlieu a woman be-
trays; yqu, s>U$i;,
And Pve st&bbwjt Tier,**
Tl >e enrihin n\ fig *Jxm n
am ill haul ar»d tvm|*mli-
Hed nppiuiise. A tl.r-h
of this hind how find
’agrtiftjfc
in^ttiiciivn ftir niigtli and
d^liiacynl Italia it Hllee-
tin its Viiily to nm re mu r
ly allied in tin*: animal
iiim • V ^ in }>atbARd^-
seiwer'sMsproT.*
. was old-
and tot tered *
and jmj inu varied or
npjmiririut^ The drama
rttYy Tgpptfphvftiiu in a
bttekSyufnls tog holism'
with honwskm* sn>*0;h
tfd In/ m*l4 tljnt f N-Ojo
It .was JonhUev* tin/
•, 1 1- *"f ’ f f j !)f ^IMV i.H.C
of- Ajj'^rinj n
frontfer'Ail^, iudi tnirf
iiiA‘d4<hi in ug c-Jj past
T*y th* flriftr-,
iisiteimt? Viip boys- am) to
ft*; rifled nP yy U<nmliig
of Indian winkothrnM-. ‘'U tlVfift tugger and t lie iiusimnu UnbbeU his viiff: in -m li-
fe imsv what that b 'In* would a noi' Easl Hide puH'mv above wha-h du*« ny
trust iii‘f*n!; said o|m wmi.h vyvdh a v'Vave rhm»U flnaUii m h\u% fiber. I n Qt$M&
»Uakr of iite ‘trail/ IjjstMunpatuufj r^rfiq*f, Vfliifa I>»^drOhon> ami Emilia w;u f. n\yui{-
“ Am/Mrn a ,<OK n yumti?' uml ugaiig with in- | hr-ie rh^. .» Imy could plainly,
ine reusing huriv.*; ‘ 1/^7 boson ir-uu a ’" thruu-ji* a hole iu the cuMie tvail aruied
i am not saving -that fbis geM.leuess of mi h< ».:<*♦> :imi g< «s>’ pin g . • euinpiiti •.
iiKlinri always \vei-i tl i -v. lull length of iohably. In l be bod we ooti-hA
one moral code; men j(j die horror oil tliiii He?mtmmna 6 gown was inoniven
Ingo i ! n* re i% as; a ki^li tpice of xbdtghi. • iMUly .long in front ; hot .unit >>.s *1*^
A •.‘.Hiking .^•tiri}i)r of I,i/ii !'...>/!> no- w ns girting up uv her -roboli her
< • vf i rr.-i p a pUy *vi-unm U; a m«-> u her of ami ankles sbov, nd, . \W did not
tj»r M;r*.crO- St r, vf >s .1 ob > . / / 'i'.e>jriy >f»* * Oa i. siio 1 !/m1 ei.it it oM S' \iir
wlVirli n^ivk ur- !?:rm<- t'o>u? fk« ua»?«o the . b'fciv. - When Uruhantio yws niountnig
IfomaiiM cair n**ti'd, that-inu* liai Ln ios- >v^ udow to ah-AVer Info’s >ii.miih:nis.
uu ho.0lile.es ]>ltiyifie o; ilh - tioHr tine/rs. »!•♦• r h«»f«- vv a 1 'l nuai.ed *vith his Vi Moulded
The hoMfHhd Imr^ wUli Fd* n d> viruggltiN: ;{hd vre nu;dc<tkr loot for xyo had
.W^uv sin* ill!* v(*'0'> e ill) los ijaiiihio.g heard of a i:hv»hnofio M.h*> ahs?a'<l ilnr
and v:n-**ni-!re ;,1(,1 ?r tu-n hr It! ids that si,.o^ r- ;m»l >t u/'k i>t< heatl out of thy
ythi.to, hd >va> In }UMson for h.i^ niH^vds. choffino ,; N ; rA/pAp h A;
•*-h“ >ta- proved unotiUdvih iir slah^ her in i hm inaio joy was tim p.romp.n-r's ,l.*ox ir^
the hack', “ThaiV the ^y.’1 hv tl»n (Eoid ntuklh;, The hi j \ Av ascii aimed
• o.. * >y nyrJ*-iyi v»ow y w; . j ^ i-» ty •> «
Indians, The ^ohnd
i , ^hyA;oHA M-vaton.
M'l of i\i}Sk id ay, took
X'i* Imiv Ki li-u .
.pltfi'v? before a Orer;hin
Tinrijcrt ’! \\iit hiiitfit hiivft
["ft •iy'T .11*411 1 H Mrf'l v:
slmnl on the -Am>}ait»s:
T1(K UWifcR HA W LAU011S,
HOW
day. HtT<*ordiu# to tW& <\mtmanUil ihe^vliota iha hvM. in Eul'^i lil Ot*:Uo
• ! I doith vJiid jfjbfcy*? m.*/‘f iSVfr.m‘1 nm ts two yvhiHi Vs ibn . touM sikVesM it I rlasrK' >a> ‘
OU»j;y*-y«n tluW ;>]&y.s in ;mi ^ia-rai*/ sm I saw Into oh ho dntiltitfiv* had proliiad
U»;»i. -t< hannr'iod .in *i mi-tar *.vm by fin* a v:j»n ah- iif lha t* UKvo rMilmn.
OH *iir w!n*MvHhai^ slii^eyUta fH-ooijdi-y • A-V'ni (ha a- »• • ,d‘ his
.loiiyT hrdwn ' *md io-. vM|i(,<oV umv have rtuidniMZad
(m &&ii *i ;i f HW ^ ’ -Jfhu . -. pfcoy- •
t In* ;«.ofA>»'?s W »oV h|*DpnV -ah *yho*y Yni U a>* Yaf {hi* hot (VlllUIUS (.hat In* pinYvd
W;inhl>!)*‘.>k, ait d f baae; hho{ l!!0':t‘iii.|.:j thrntiohoMI n tth iHioiliaViitro and ‘dignity.
l*j$-h-o. i i i . i * > r,ui.’oi»v; voiir- Vo/>iij hi-dM*>H-d, );U lltd hi lln- Yri.r! f.m <rh-
t*ai:-Tiy- ;y;d h poa/ ha H' h lino of Hd? •/'•t!ii>i|lta* hi* |"v*M'inV n a* 'iii,^ ;.nd h<-.
ild>*ri , hkas Wll h aiyV't JiUUlii-T ftili •*< taf >*»>«. ; I |j$ <h I j S ary fJlVl'H.
;aiab-n^*i. \u ht-> lynUr.’^r.^u ;»>»«*.•»( w hit and im|»rhvM \v. ' Hi - v^.r* «-. rah, inn)
lib -V: In-u .he -vanh'd iho >>M*d h»- Hcxihlv and drnnty and In'- d» »<**.. not '^jUUa-
vr<n*jd jifit/l 4 jj}j ^{tii:V; d'^y-'i £;>., H ro^* th volume oT
om* shotMi wie h a; vr'ttm and iha 'ptttfli M»e bans reonneb li\ the Yyao^s
otiiW OH ill* |n ':iiJ|iii'!' I a*
■ wMtUIVsydiiMw**- " A*eoff4>,,*~
1 1 am Jivti uiMj::)
£4 it a kb a<T«'j«ia. it hi; a any * ,y-
nthnr o,i\ vaninoi - the
.’i:«d on{<fJNin^ fiuah-
tyyybjkyivfna shujdindY y
anu at h^!»M s-ih oa.^uv^
>v U ( <r I o i tt w 1 xvi ( ovHr ^ n j r on i nh
hra si Uh’d do iUo i i\
art: ' 'C>''
hho-> Oil ! I vs* ion Inn V.idY Wt-i‘t*
h hpl Y - it . ■€&!& ..
Wf»,ohvr ihvn w, -.*«■ supers
amt'
}** 1 Or; ta*% fjh 0 t»?i|d til
;w:d i j i i .i r rv* ) I m j voaitV -v-
iyjWi $hvdld tuty
for it, X\ii< fs£ tliyvi1 '
aohm^ tV»at Who .
forsM'. H(^ {ogs ^ni tin>
sk * M-v. • ' y •- . '- h vl: .JiyyV^y
Tra* a-Ofiai-MUf 4*f ilia itvnyn
Inni fh»- e ■■'•() ;> oi' Ins ^nalttyh;
ht> in »m I d in d; Hinv<> :i f^n.
;> with f otilffif
a Uit^ly atnl la^
sm-Oi .V..-.V sN*hf* irnVtad with.
n Ono of in* ifc
ilevn-a> was (,, >|id *i,n (h^
h&i&t »T rlhi. j[jeM||iy vli.d hivj'ft :
!.<;; wni; whirh, :i H. i(a'
d*d i».*‘ >{v-:tk a V:.M‘d ?lf OUV
laf»in.|^.Vd*’id V*4in^iV liiiVh
in . 1, Uii Arnr-»‘1,;:HHS!H.
idf Hi* h'.nlotu mititi it »?*
tmrd vo 2i idfoY He4.
Mwttd cj
ict Mil voiiiiod of
aelm^y Wri^lh said by
those \yiio know to bf* on
‘T^«.. .Vyllti?.* ;,Wi. All yt.* lintt
38
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
]y set aside. “ A reporter came here the
other day,” the cashier explained, “and
wrote this about me. I pay no attention
to it.” He handed me a carefully folded
newspaper and pointed to a passage which
told, among other things, how the cashier
staid in the box-office all day and wrote
stories of life in the Bowery. “He turns
us into ridicule,” he repeated.
I pointed out that it is a reporter’s busi-
ness to speak of the amusing things he
finds, and added that I was interested to
know what he had to say about the life of
the foreign people in America. “ Ah !” he
exclaimed, with quick intuition, “ I see
you will turn me into ridicule! I don’t
care. By-and-by I will write about you.”
I accept the challenge; and if I am una-
ble to disguise the fact that I was pro-
vincial enough to find keen delight in
the strange people and strange sights I
met, I stand in danger of swift retribu-
tion. If we laugh first, it behooves us
to laugh as heartily as we can, for these
Yiddish people are hot on our trail in the
arts as well as in commerce.
The racial instincts of the audience are
as plain as the nose on your face— or on
theirs. If you leave your seat between acts,
the probability is that you will find a stan-
dee in it when you come back. No array of
checks will save you. The usher will plead
and argue in your behalf, but the standee
sits it out in defiance. If you persist un-
til the curtain rises, you speedily realize
that you have become a public nuisance.
The people will shout “Sit down !” “ Get
out!” “Put him out!” There is scarcely
a murmur of sympathy. If the usurper
says a word, it is, “ I paid to get in!” or,
“Didn’t I give my fifty cents?” I seldom
went to a Jewish theatre that some such
row did not take place. At the afternoon
performances the disturbance is continual.
The babies who cannot be left at home to
sleep are amply in evidence. They are
not like the polite Italian babies, who are
nursed quiet in an instant. They whine,
and squall, and kick. The neighbors say
“ 'S s-s-h !” The people in the balcony cry
“ Shut up!” And from the gallery there
are shouts of “Put him out!” until final-
ly, the mother gets up and walks her off-
spring quiet in the foyer. When she
conies back she gets her seat, perhaps.
At one matinee the noise was so loud and
continual that, though I stood in the flies,
I could not hear what the actors were
saying, and finally they stopped talking
and waited, with the utmost gemuthlich -
keit for the baby to be put out.
The revelation of Yiddish traits in the
plays has the frankness and intimacy of
spontaneous artistic expression. The pre-
vailing theme is perhaps the immemorial
strife against the golden idols of the Gen-
tiles. In two very popular operas I saw,
Rabbi Shabshi's Daughter and Zirele
the Rabbi's , or the Beauty of Krakoiv ,
a Yiddish maiden becomes alienated from
her people and tastes all the splendor and
the power of Christendom. Rabbi Shab-
shi’s daughter is torn from her people
during a religious persecution, and be-
comes an adoptive princess in Bohemia.
Zirele is betrayed by a Christian student,
afterward a Russian priest, and is sent on
the scarlet way of the Babylonian. I
own that I was delighted to find that for
the Yiddish maiden the primrose way to
the everlasting bonfire had so many
primroses. It seems as if there is no end
of bouquets to be thrown at almost any
young Yid who goes out from among
her people. But the foretaste of the
bonfire was proportionately bitter. Fate
haled the wanderers back, humbled and
suppliant, to the people and the religion
of their childhood, with its sweet and
sacred rites, its homeliness and severity.
“ Ein Yid bleibt ewig ein Yid!” exclaims
Rabbi Shabshi’s daughter at the last, and
the sentiment rouses boundless enthusi-
asm. The fundamental tragedy of this
historic race lies here: the mainspring of
their life is in a faith that was old when
history began, and is still one of the
purest and noblest of religions, rich in
the mystery of the East; yet the very
Oriental luxuriance of their tempera-
ment makes them respond to the glamour
of the Gentile world about them. Like
Mr. ZangwilTs child of the Venetian
Ghetto, born and bred in the awful sim-
plicity of the synagogue, they awake
some day to find themselves in the gay-
ety of the Piazza of Venice and in the
splendor of the Cathedral of St. Mark.
The Yiddish playwright had a right, per-
haps, to make his villain a Christian
priest. And the audience was right to
hiss him and hoot him. At the end of
each act he came out to receive his ova-
tion of groans and jeers, and the audience
was not to be placated until he gave a
very un-Christian shrug of deprecation,
and— or so at least it seemed to me —
thrust forward his nose in evidence.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
A YQCirti&OX'* CUAtlrfKjA.T jtBLl* :$*'
•Uy—tluU ip chorus &iids: -wel- of ibr Lie about them is ui t-lie play of
ernue him with :i vociferous Columbian VvUhy. The plot is from the American
yell. The usurping villain \p utilized play, ami many passage* arc almost idem
•ailso fis 4 onuio diaraeler- His favorite lical. The local color am) character., how-
gesture '.is to . forks of a lung ever, have sidlVml as complete a t rails la-
id a-ek heard,, displaying beneath his lion into Yuldisii verms as Urn lttng?tag&
a diamond solitaire snruwhat smaller Trilby's uahif easily becomes Tilly
than an Ko gesture could have Taffy is Herr Gottlieb, aud Little Billee is
been fouiner than f.he Yiddish audience Herr Werner. Svengali -is Herr Hart -
thought tins His pet vanity 'wa* that maim, and the racial distinction of 'which
he could .“speken Engleeseb ” I jot ted Dn Maimer made m mid. is perforce ig?
down some of the flowers of his speech nored. The characters .seem nil to bohmjv
on my programme. “Ioh danke dir, to one family, ami Syengali h Little
dear, dear Air,' Biumeufcdd. Tankainu BillreNs uncle Yet the permanence of
| thank you j. *5 a‘ Oh dn, . my sw.Uuvst £fuge tradition chip’s out in his nose
Cdi dir, ?yU'iuc lolly gvol/' -Jind other like Not rnmmnt wiih wh.H mHo re hml lav-
plmtses/ ; When his foolish Lhcd *>tt him. he built K a stofy or two
lov*- to a poor P’juuncm girl instead of to higher on the bridge.
the Fifth Avi-mii? heircs*, lie storms at 1 hoped to Me all the 1/est Yiddish
him- " Wi» m dc*. loniter inft r^T pin vs. and asked rpy iVflmdthe oashifcr’to
* Gimnisht .[guv nkdil.C answers. the son, book .me and. let me kmuv irvbem-ver Herr
deflap tlx. ■’.'•* -:?hu? up!" the viH.attoi** fa- Adler, the icciliiie m-oj at ‘]o> ■ Windsor
t) if? r retorts; “I break your nU;is Hm>e:.'r Theatre,. w^s to ap|i«Wr. for t was- helpless.
Cfliee, wliei) hungry, he exelainis;rut>hifl^ before the Yiddish Roioo!<:^niiu»^, He
life -waistcoat, * Eom on. und let’s have Lob-hue; and when I spoke of my regreb
a tittle lap^ji -room ]!• • Qtf anpfcher wca~. Ipy s&hf he tpfl}. fluen hi the
sii^i he^dys. Urbanely- /! Ah* there T Was Rories he hkfl fleyn wiiflihg that tfi». mat-.
\vilLt: tlu,. Mister, ffigictone Sport A t ter iiafl i pped h is m
ufi oL Umsc essays the audience l.nw! pi.-mhi 'em n^.n Lum adetpmfe and f
-!>b laughter* for they talk the Entro-m m j§§| f0 -n>oloy ivy Lb vhe fma Umi l^flu
of llio Bowery tiirnnt ! v. ami. -in afhflihm ype.-k of su»nr <»r Ib-rr .Adler | 1k>i play-h-
to fbsdr Yiddish newspapers, read Ific mv'V bx-quxi i*+: vivl lltfln. Ihrr
yelievc jvuU'fml^. S^yevo/;;: >b-f .mid / Pc //o f/b ■;-• arc aii
An i nicrcM i »k;‘ exaiitjhe of lheflitiucWiTH t h<-l/»«vv adupiatnur--, of Cas^ica.l Cicrnuin
HOW THE OTHER HALF LAUGHS
play:*. Der.
tUpK of 'ij ife Jfo# Pfckff <tf Pmix, ':-;$v>f&
v *« • */> r nr CnrticMil lih h^livn. hivm
<>•’> fin-fUd l'vfU$> »nvnuu«>!iru! the !;•-•
eJrmm ,ii »!*•• r of ;sOnm 77m Rvk.WiH >.*V/r
m 4 rpOmyi i'XpU* ros . itself ) Was
’■| Jv bedaHsfc it !$• ^aiil to
t»e !ii 11 of kW*af eo1*Ay py»juy of
1$ j$jjg primed m Eo-k-Os. TO i v is ;t]>o
a'V7 »4<li4i of 3£itf&p&a\ Wbk*|v
frotn ij 1 l cop lij fU>d Oiji I.;
1ml. it k it UuMVilr !• Mir iu-iis, aod, at?
]p:.zy#^ mU vmJy tin1 fofi£iin&£*?.. Voi t i nn
seeing and JpuSJ*. fefcft
int»i terms * »f mod e n » Y \*< \* i Olr } i fe. K \ m ^
1'AfUV m/nrs XL ;hmg heat'd nod
Cft>\rrj/ lU-rr i0itw#l Lmr h iH best
jyurL 0 Li thf^ H act, )te v.:$0%n)^ Lear is
« king: p i t I t j ik sei*t md. I;i & I gi vi* 1 1 a tv ay
ills* Ummev VO Uir Thiol fm is uu mm\*Ti
in tin* fmoth. hr dir-, r hr^>!;-i i\ .Mid (dim].
M Enmy ,‘itfl is 'aoi^- than rim uiOc .*' he
3TVS •* Wlrno ) Jw* i V * 1} tlviv 5.S T»bhn;.^
ami wva^pifi-* all th-romm' ? L ^ house, 1)
is' iFffrr Horn Shaky ypwov.4. ' Op v;
; in Foppifoi oft -Up: rifo dt
Galjnrifki’Uostiial^Oiti^ubaepljVUiSdjihtp'^
ie i haT my FjPnt;js,^ tlat ]T
" '* ({ ■>> I r, kbH ^9jdV*T loyaHv i<> free
:^4ght and (Ifr h>v-
t»v4ii‘ Prf:>S',;«H'rt-y of to- .'htliPiliioal
lay is UVisPir frof ii p G*P**
; Uk' iin£* aT lu%>d$
Hi tan x ns ILp*tiAdtejr
; rvi i 1 0 1 v tliea t; they art* fji i j <*f: 1 to 15 re-
;♦ »:^'vL*.aiiy ^f.iktelkoj ; (imioUvt*]U^*
t* broad and ki ni pin, a rid kv^Jf-
Vr . - i \ v c * y pm u g s jli rcctj y -I roin t by beart.
£v d tPv iranadic .siiuaiiorK 1 found
tfe*t H.in play bad
Jbrct) srvt'ra^ iv tiles
^ ' • win ter- -
V Wj lo tk|il in
TtillvuMks.tn I know
of no Anmriran Hrc
ni iv Mi noblv
/ .r>-. ouFllnntHa 1 a
won lit picel w ilh so
.' ’ ktkp.1 mi « pprecia.r
■ . U
Madmauj iim
kiudJcT-idut. ?< tut of
drujiis.aijil in tnany
ms bon makks j,o'y«. .to a CH-HL ways ’was more
M »'i.4SSfC
igidl}#
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Tfllv I'ATlITtTM : IN T1 1 I'AfiTKlUlK
n - ’-I- the more Amerihau jpte ac her ilmf \ jotted down a .word or two p$\
ctmii* ihi? eoiripadyr vra*s. Imui. aud/ao *wWt slmsaKh Shiv Itiltl
b-^’vjU J V :;i! rn* -ill that I feared he mipht sfjiuwe in front. awlA) ivhBdehriAd: nmrarl;
lie hujjL'he'd at my fears, ami about ?v) as fti crf>t The iyvv(hK ftffafcU and
• f*t. i^. ^i bow he ^ot ou with the Yhl* tip* more ueprolik'. '* W)iat < thH tuuHi-i1
Ahum ami iiti&pKiUsi he ussihiwl tliu e*r with' taking all of. wy she objected
tov dhoriis v;Hii KaheJarsian opprobrium. with primeval. vanity, and was quieted
to ,im |j£ *WU they bad only the oh) .re- with difficult y . When 1 1 1 ii> skcteh
ply thm. be- rouiU not he of their people finished she tossed lif*f ill Ou Id tr m a \v*;;y-
if hA '-w-wo wd to; To the .end hr rotund 'worthy of List* rif old, am.) said, “Oune
them , every tnoU;;.,*^ g\\>\ id tUftrtu It. again to-morrow and laky ihy nllior
was i vot liiee- hoi it vuo> very fuiMu atul shir," . Fur the lift* of mo I oofiUl m>i >..y
u_ i>rat.itmd *ny RaKoa fm.dc m h*\ fh;U • Whether her t«me hold mi«*iv of the pidi**m
Tills dr-odu'i of our peonn- h ul ilnrmgli ait dony of tin* fhwery <§t iis model n lustimH.
thaa* years man. Unnod hi« J-aebd pride m fur gHiiog n|f Umn* U in si u-ansanhon .
the of iho iinfni*rr.o ing' {iO>i|i}r- li U The biding’ a-etors and Were a If
.alttn’M f0 out lark; ftf the from the old. eounho . ami some of them
*ymv*udnes und ib»- m>HhU>uive pmU js h^h pt 4 \ et h ;onu*d Fnuin h.- The sfurv of
that trpike up an nrii-slm ]>eopk\ their in*os is. in h gwjaraj wa>‘( in*/. *,u>r-y'
There other Utripetp £ di Win. ’h l heard of Adk-rV Vs AMdert fU* doit
th^y^&JWrx^ srjrf* t£o#$y A * f iij \u li f m . fye n.ft^ iAy&ed
mO;*mmev Tjior' ifiost (v i:h>ir'l rsh ; of da- I peon., ,n tMU’ed ot dm *3««vn., ilv
aml wi,n uun i*ToV/.f* tip m the oiveiH'd U oluoo. a - ... \4r J h^a I on W .‘ts.
^‘Jusio- d- h.oi Iw-ii 01 upr jM.ihlio se.hno'iN/ tiiv mveved ; and nynuo ptf! xlowh As |
Tti'.y ?:e to. Ut- h >du»o*y island m Iasi, n.wm’i h.»*
a tva0rf>c ;*yvh'v*m of. iitistf. ;Ag»*
mdiar ,;-r- r- v*. tes resell (.0 Urn rout mm The rdnU - e^-reih-d. hui thy Km;-
ris ,/.f Fifti1 AvHHttf io p-fv. Mite of roan •laid- haioo on leioff .< nnVpoomn
xheni r*^di-d Aoeh a msu- huy ui urn. ul ihtMirorOi ii^ lh*d hii- ^eoaoto fe^Trni}.
•u ..n>, oee JsiC-N V -net a<iopred I'HiiiiU ^y aiiii h-o u-e- ermHU'^ V her w amhn; ; ,-
P - .*.> while Mr Kdid»eoel; was ^i;.*irdiing ?hi*tmg)i f’ont?ne!ds he hmiiuht op iii
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY ^tAG-AZINE,
if* Airiieri^a, bu{, iJnyu$$t lie in ay be. t
e« >u'j<] npl em-tain that tins i* the
r:i;v-. Then- ;u*e YaUhsh t Ima tiV'S ;>>*<> in
,Pli i Iful eiphia. C an (1 sf^rii>>«la?al i y
hi San Era twi&Hh iti ahyAnir of ^b icb ; L
nVu^lj. & j |-m3 ' '’-ipe} ; u-ic» cl
acting arv 1A* ■$£'■ f^un^’ r, ll is ajn?
baton to vmiteimi isi ari.MpUnvh Uinativ
I Wore America n ;uibVef»oo?b i varumt. im*
agi lie a mor* am usipy ^^leruuetii; . a cal \\
avoitld be in Unvstiujy J<» Misoov.r-n* wh^i * i - r
it would tenrh ns more of Yiddish art tie of
if >e- i t r< t & t i j < Mis p£ ttrf 4 A tntitivw b u tlly jri<s Or
Tiie maiiiiirer- of (be Thalia, Wlrich U
the rival theatre of I lie
Vviml^uv bus written
KPhn fpimern play h ami
»> oilg 1 h b m 77r e
Avt#iwnt<y af a JXoc
im'r. 1 (-*' lias r rated a ted
the jplpll tragedies af
fj/r Sb,:lve>pearrv :iidi yiv^
them al mU r\*nh e eery
iseasou The iuur plays
*m* ^tsijnu by
A\bh; yvWde. iW ttllde
■ ij'cititftl , by Lata i may ami
be JjWwii* Mei.il -»f
the fV>y f
iy mtftfd eel
w e J j in » o t$*\ ;U f New
York by ( It** ^ 'i
;r»vd \olVu- < »f i } t r a0l6l*S.
Jif)fb v/| tlie.se Yiddish
iip>;Uve% are in bff^V
. ‘>uX‘k r^iupu'bfe .yVi (W
Wtpvl^nr wbetT- t be tM
•; <ni t i ^bti Uie ^0! i nie
wfL *’!* a i • ti * no re t ti ri* d . 1 1 mi*#.
i&£y are, be>idr» llm*r Ablet*.
. hen id y'ii v ! cife.rt . in> Mrs of y
jj^F MtstnM adisiib (Vo wo;
, aipl at kv.of -nh; of $|ifc
Singe m. M rs KiiltM-b, inis
a v'ibee iiip it n nortliy of
ihv Met r/ijiultlart Ma^e.
S» ^ Tbeinurm tanee of the
tbeat.re.s' oHJic* X nldisli
‘ ' , v . m l m i y a jy* bKs t •jadh ti in.
tbeir HMdnniaiJms. Tite.
Wiud.snr Vs the e^uai
of of lip? Vhea-
!n;s of Ltfofuj’.ya v,. The
I'ii til j a . b \vh ;s A \ V‘ec tly
ppposniy Bo vAery*
• ' . j< ovi^-ym t|iy v^yy test
m t hf to ty ; (be- pri^s
r* f y b it ,sv;i 15 f );c»tn
*/ ■ \-ii-s\ii -%0.
H CH H A0Uti AS TIIL >Vii.O UAH
AT fjojrjeY ISLA>:U^tUi isOWEilY .©t>Y ‘i>F TO-DAY A!iJ
<> 1JJS .steady
itize
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
*v'lio the
nf thr oitlrv Amrrii /in a*‘d
t‘;nl**<i l)u‘ liuvr.v 'fin- Tli'aha, i'r^r.rod
i il mith niut
aitd *io*i*#»is ; a i\*\ v.'io-n rt« v:itv^ w*avi
Mini l;tf(3 grad-iaf sod'oio- Of dir fiorinao
% kfki Itl'1] it Pi i Vt'i % • L 1 A !» * A" * f in Ji»i ^ 1 t • i t ir*& AO < ) A.W! % .
Friiii ^ Borimi lit'U the thea ti e for
; URmfhs^. \ ; 4 .'' •■ ■, ' ’ _ ■
T*d* YntilisLi iftaiiythAt .fcrfifc the Tltalia
., f rniVi ; <u]e working Tijoogr i lit?
’■ gpftttol [ h iivft. ' R*^fy ; n £, x$ tfjfir
t it*- jpn vSH'.-ri- winch tin? Yiddish people
refer to Dh ■ J ou r EasteVd' Ij t, ;*r*>
life they moved <>{> towu to tin- l frying: . brought ouU Jill.otl. vviih yhnmmnpsih?
Place Tlmjifre .Her* they eotHaVife ttiH £*>iS|^ dud d Y jfW flu? re*l of t lie
y; yoav verwni* //mma -• Ho- )V«ii«rvifr.
•Thvir |*eVformuijc^ hry riot yet up
tu^Ujosw of tin* German*.' imt for all v>rhp
i Hi 1*1*1 jig? |lg HI-
ii*. hwr open mu* foreign nnpn
f ean iVoft^iotr ro> beUWr tirdd of
s-io>fy^ nur ode rjmre likfelyVto vdtrr snmt*
of thru* I'joidadjeot a) ^^xmc^piums,. wdt h
: }:*>$&' ed in *\yyut-Hi i »>}> r*hu&nee: ' * JJf&.
; ;$#&• ;>f & •..' jfig^ A. Rd,s in 'iii ^
ifook. Hmv tfa' Olhev Hxilf
'Lftebi'is'-l&m '* of lilMc xahm "/em'M^iyedv.
, . V .:V,' • \ '
tjvnIUtovA til ihr ) ‘oiilta. and today pH -
. ?icnf airan^e.fnai e^yMy of
forHianveH as great perhhjrY M ^
any tlirahc niAwm^. - . 'UfelwTLif
‘lays div (iusito- givrn oy-^r -W vlmmaijA
tViiiy •<.»:>*.<. uiul to o(>yras oy iiruaper-
Ui net nod vMiiers. foMiuled ou Uu? lore of
l(io uiirMTv ; for ih*' v-vl of Uo- snasou
tn*: mani^uy^ of ihe Irsdojg Place Till4'
alre are (lit4 Xiw 'uohi . ;>;** ;IJbWi!3fi'i'
nod SmU.M‘Hiunii . Tin* nciors arv freqaeid-
ly the oo ;tli^ German ^tnge: IjO'
* V-
Go
QfifiSi] from
KH V E-RS E"FY; C) F MICHIGAN
HOW THE OTHER HALF LAUGHS.
47
with even the meanest bank account. . . .
Over and over again I have met with in*
stances of these Polish and Russian Jews
deliberately starving themselves to the
point of physical exhaustion while work-
ing from daylight until eleven at night
to save a little money In no other spot
does life wear so bald and materialistic an
aspect.” Night after night I have seen
the two Yiddish theatres swarmed with
men, women, and children largely from
the sweat shops. I referred the question
to my friend the cashier. “That is how
you all misrepresent us!” he exclaimed.
“There are many poor Jewish families
that spend sometimes three, four, five dol-
lars a week here at this theatre.” A brief
calculation will show that, compared with
their earnings, this represents a patronage
of art infinitely beyond that of the fami-
lies uptown who parade their liberality
in supporting the Metropolitan Opera
House. In the Yiddish version of Trilby ,
Svengali shows his hardness of heart by
scoffing at art and artists, insolently cry-
ing: “ DieKunstist fur Narren. Ich will
Geld haben— Millionen, Millionen .” It is
the simple and sufficient evidence of vil-
lany, as the lack of music in one’s soul
was to Shakespeare.
The artistic life of the Ghetto is not
confined to playwrights and actors, com-
posers, musicians, and singers. There
are five Yiddish newspapers, which Yid-
dish newsboys cry daily through the
streets. One paper, The Dramatic World ,
is devoted to the Yiddish theatres. There
are novelists whose tales are hawked from
tenement to tenement, and sell in great
numbers. Of the most popular of the
novelists, Schorner, it is related that in
order to meet the demand lie has to keep
three or four tales under way at once ; and
to keep all his printers supplied, lie goes
almost daily from shop to shop, writing
only long enough in each to meet the
present demand for copy. There' are
poets, too, one of whom, Morris Rosen-
feld by name, is said by those capable of
judging to have the native gift for song.
In all the artistic output of the Ghetto
there is the same correspondence between
the life and history of the people and
their art that is evident in the thea-
tres; and, by means of it, Russians and
Galicians are, as in the theatres, made
known to Poles, Austrians, and Prus-
sians. The arts of the Ghetto, as is
usually the case when arts spring from
Vol. XCVIII— No 583 -5
the masses, are imbuing their patrons
with a sense of the community of their
life and interests. In the truest sense of
the word, they are national arts.
If you are a philanthropist, you will
of course be distressed to find people
whose fortunes are so wretched so light
of heart. A truly charitable person, I
suppose, would advise them to buy soap
instead of theatre tickets. But if you
are a lover of your kind — which has
somehow come to be very different from
a philanthropist, and not at all so re-
spectable— you will perhaps wonder
whether we have not a thing or two to
learn from these pitied foreigners. It is
worth questioning, for instance, whether
there is not a pretty definite tie between
the primitive, the elemental, in life and
the beautiful in art. The people that
built the cathedrals lived in no grander
state than these peoples of the East Side ;
and the age of Shakespeare had gone
some two hundred years and more before
Englishmen found out that life is not
worth living without the daily bath.
Even in the court theatre of the time, it
would seem, cleanliness and ventilation
were not always to be looked for. “Some
sweet odors suddenly coming forth, with-
out any drops falling,” says Bacon, in the
essay on “ Masques and Triumphs,” “are
in such company, as there is steam and
heat, things of great pleasure and refresh-
ment.” The “company” were, of course,
Elizabeth and her court. The “steam
and heat” would doubtless find their
modern parallel in a sweat-shop. If one
had his choice between carving an angel
in the stone of a cathedral portal, or tun-
ing an Elizabethan song, and his morning
tub, — but life has solved the problem for
us; and, after all, much as this Yiddish
community resembles in outward condi-
tions the great artistic generations of our
past, it may not be relevant.
It is a fair question, though, whether
the artists of the Ghetto, if allowed to de-
velop spontaneously, would produce any
really great works of art. Unfortunately
it is one that can never be answered.
On all sides American life is pressing in
on them ; in every corner children are
coming under the spell of its outward
glamour. It is Morris Rosenfeld’s badge
of fame among his people that lie was
discovered by a Harvard professor, and
has read his poems before the leading
literary men of New York. Even the
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
48
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
language he uses is affected by the out-
lying idiom. Mr. W. D. Howells, who
speaks very highly of the poems, tells me
that many of the words were plain Eng-
lish. A resident of the Ghetto, Abra-
ham Cahan, has written stories of Yid-
dish life in New York for American
magazines, and has published two suc-
cessful books. In describing the influ-
ence of American life, he told me of a
mother who said: 44 1 don’t speak Eng-
lish, but I shall soon learn. There ”
(pointing to her son), “that is my teach-
er.” The children mostly go to the pub-
lic schools, and, except in their homes,
have discarded the Yiddish language.
“I like to talk about the old country,” a
Yiddish mother said to me one evening
at the Windsor, “and some day I think
I go back; but my children make fun of
me and call me 4 Dutchman.’ ” Here the
father chirped in : 44 Yes, they say, 4 What
hell good the old country? This here is
United States.’ ” He confessed to me that
he preferred Proctor’s to the Windsor.
This was during the Spanish war, and
the Windsor was draped with American
flags and banners, some of them wrought
in silk. The orchestra began with Sou-
sa's “ Stars and Stripes.” I found that the
Yiddish people were proud of the fact that
they had sent a larger proportion of sol-
diers to the front than any of the other
colonies. For all the minglings of out-
landish jargons, the bits of quaint life
and character on the stage, the insistence
of Jewish customs and religious usages,
those Yiddish sons were right— that was
United States. In a generation or two
the native color of Yiddish life will fade,
and the theatres with them.
It would be pleasant to think that in
change for the cleanliness and comfort
we teach we may receive a part of the
love of pleasure, the sympathy with mere-
ly amusing things, the aspiration for an
ampler life, that have cheered these down-
trodden people. Something of their spirit
we may of course imbibe, but not all, for
nature is apt to work things out on a
different plan. In a democratic com- %
munity the genius for artistic creation is
most likely to be manifested when the
community falls heir to aspirations above
its worldly condition — as occurred when
these Yiddish people reached our shores.
If in the course of years our souls should
cease to fulfil their largest hopes in out-
of-door sports and porcelain baths, is it
more than reasonable to suppose that the
longing for ampler life can be satisfied
only by something very beautiful?
SERENADE.
BY ROSAMUND MARRIOTT WATSON.
'ITT HO is it sings the gypsies’ song to-night
\ ? To muted strings,
Deep in the linden shade, beyond the light
My casement flings ?
Can it be Death who sings? Ah no, not he,
For he is old, —
His voice is like the murmur of the sea
When light grows cold.
Who is it sings once more, once more again
The gypsy song ?—
Song of the open road, the starry plain
Estranged so long: —
“Come to the woods, come, for the woods are green,
The sweet airs blow.
The hawthorn boughs the forest boles between
Are white as snow. . .”
The wet leaves stir; the dim trees dream again
Of vanished springs; —
Out in the night, out in the slow, soft rain.
My lost youth sings.
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THE SECOND WOOING OF SALINA SUE.
BY RUTH McENERY STUART.
IT all came about through the investi-
gations of the Reverend Saul Sanders,
of the Buckeye Conference. Other evan-
gelists had come to the plantation and
conducted revivals, adding to the church
militant a goodly number of souls. Then
things had gradually settled down in the
old ruts. But with the advent of the good
brother from the Buckeye Conference
there began a new order of procedure.
Brother Saul was a man of power,
with that magnetic quality that insures
leadership, and his words were those that
thunder. After proceeding along the old
emotional lines until he had worked the
people up to the highest pitch of religious
enthusiasm, he calmly stepped down from
the pulpit, and assuming the awful and
solemn tones of the divinely commis-
sioned, he delivered for their edification
what he was pleased to call “a settin’
fo’th o’ de ’mortal law, accordin’ to de
dispositions o' de Christian Chu’ch mili-
tary.” It would be vain to attempt to quote
with effect from this discourse, which, as
he himself freely claimed, “didn’t con-
fine itself to no one tex\ bein’ rich in
textes tooken berbatum, word for word,
fom de Holy Scriptures.”
The good people of Mount Zion Chapel
had many times heard maledictions
against t lie evil doer hurled from its pul-
pit, and they were, moreover, familiar
with some of the best-known scriptures
bearing upon retributive justice as well as
the communion of saints, and it was their
wont to listen with becoming equanimity
— the equanimity of the presumably inno-
cent—to frequent allusions to such special
numbers of the code as were most often
ignored. Until the coming of the apostle
Saul of the Buckeye, however, none had
had the temerity to particularize as to
personal infringement. But Saul was a
man of prowess. His lips were strangers
to fear: and the gospel, as he dared to ex-
pound it, was not only retrospective in
its leadings, it was reslitutional.
It is a hard word, restitution, and a
troublous, and it fell like a bomb upon
the hitherto peaceful bosom of the body
social of the plantation. Not that its appli-
cation was particularly widespread. But
there were cases, well-known cases whose
comfort its enforcement would so palpa-
bly disturb, that more than two or three
or even four persons in the congregation
felt, from the time of this preaching, that
they were the objects of special notice.
Indeed, the turning of turbaned, befeatli-
ered, and even of bald heads in special di-
rections was for a time so marked that
the august brother felt it necessary to call
them to order, which he did by an open
rebuke to the effect that those brothers
and sisters who found it amusing to turn
their heads to find motes in their bro-
thers’ eyes would do well to keep their
backs to the congregation to hide the
beams in their own. From which it ap-
pears that Saul was a man of some humor.
But Saul’s chief strength lay in his ab-
solute fearlessness. When he had de-
clared that appropriation of a neighbor s
goods without consent was a breaking of
the law for which no repentance would
avail without restoration of the stolen
property, he did not hesitate to shout,
while he shot an accusing glance of fire
at a chosen offender, “ Yas, Brother Jones,
I’m a-lookin’ at you,” or, “Sister Smith, I
trus’ you’s a-listenin’.”
This was hard to bear, but it was not
the worst. The law of restitution is
broad, and it reaches far.
It was not enough — so the man of
God proceeded to expound the law — that
such of God’s people as should in fu-
ture seek matrimony should find it only
at the consecrated hand of the regularly
ordained for the holy bestowal, but if
some had, either through blindness or
hardness of heart, alread y achieved it
outside the fold, they must hasten to
forswear the stolen blessing, and come
humbly and penitently forward and re-
ceive it with the benediction of the
Church. This they were exhorted to do,
or to have their names dishonorably
erased from the rolls of the sanctuary.
And in this application of the ordinance
Brother Saul had the temerity to partic-
ularize even to the calling of names, loudly
challenging the persons indicated to pro
duce certain non existent documents, or
else come under the ban.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
50
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
This was the bomb whose bursting had
caused consternation even to the remote
corners of the bit of earth which felt the
tremors of the explosion—and for good
cause.
The conditions of restitution are nearly
always difficult and embarrassing. Even
in the lesser case of the stolen shoat, for
instance, it was sometimes quite impossible
— and for obvious reasons. But it was
in its bearing upon the more vital issue
that he who essayed its enforcement had
need of much wisdom. To confirm at
random all existing relations was not
always consistent with the teachings of
holy writ, even as “feebly interpreted”
by the humble brother from the Buck-
eye. Indeed, the simple law of restitu-
tion occasionally required the unequivo-
cal undoing of such, and, in some difficult
instances, a redoing under embarrassing
protests from those most concerned. And
again there were instances, simple enough
in their outward seeming, that developed
annoying features under pressure.
Such, for instance, was the well-known
case of cross-eyed Steve and Salina Sue,
two quiet and otherwise well-ordered folk
who had been for many years in good and
regular standing in both church and com-
munity, notwithstanding certain alleged
early omissions.
Salina, the cook on the plantation, a
portly black womau pf forty or there-
abouts,was mother to all the happy group
of pickaninnies who tumbled over each
other in the back yard, and Steve was their
father. Salina as a cook was a genius —
which is to say that she seemed to have
somewhat the touch of the magician in
the practice of the art which she loved.
Steve was also endowed beyond the com-
mon, but his gift was chiefly for paternity.
Indeed, his whole nature had developed
for so long along fatherly lines that he
seemed to have paternal relations toward
all living things on the place. The sick
calf realized in him a benefactor, and
homeless dogs who chanced along were
observed to lift their tails above the cour-
age line as they looked into his face and
followed him to troughs of refreshment.
He was a faithful drawer of water and
hewer of timber for his much-demanding
spouse, and from the arrival of his first-
born until now he had been a walker by
night and a rocker by day of his ever-
increasing family.
But with it all he had been happy.
His little wizened face, kindly in its origi-
nal mouldings, was in as broad a grin
when he went to the well for water, car-
rying one of the twins astride each lnp,
while he balanced the pail upon his head,
as it was during the long hot afternoons
in summer while he rocked the cradle, or
fanned the flies off the “teethers” asleep
on the patch-work quilt spread for them
on the ground under the mulberry- trees
outside the kitchen door.
But of late — w’hich is to say for several
days before this narrative begins — the lit-
tle man had worn an air of utter dejection.
His old misfit clothes, which in former
days had seemed to impart a spice of the
grotesque to his otherwise appealing fig-
ure, were shown to be inadequate now.
The grotesqueness had lain in his smile,
and it was no more. The slope of his
narrow shoulders was the slope of the
forlorn. Even the little children saw that
something was wrong, and followed him
curiously with questioning glances as he
crossed the yard, .and in the evenings
when he sat on the end of the porch op-
posite his spouse, at whose feet it had been
his life habit to recline, the dog was seen
to go from one to the other before he took
sides finally by lying down at Steve’s el-
bow.
Steve and I had been good friends from
the first. I soon recognized in him a
prodigal and unreckoning contributor of
kindly energies on the place ; and besides,
he amused me. I think he amused me
about equally in all three of his relations
— father, husband, and servant. I believe
I place them in their proper order. I
smiled the first time I saw him — and his
first words gave me a story and won me
completely.
He was crossing the cow-lot, leading a
calf to water. A fretting child toddled at
his heels, and while he stooped to take
him in his arms, another sprang to his
shoulders, straddled his neck, and took
the ride to the spring mounted in this
way, while the little father, struggling
with the reluctant calf, staggered beneath
his load. He was laughing, though, when
I overtook him, and seeiug his face, I
laughed too, as I said, jocosely, “Well,
old fellow, I suppose you are a sort of
factotum, aren’t you?” To which he in-
stantly replied, with an amused glance at
the child on his arm : “ Yas, sir, I s’pec’ I
is. I sho does tote 'em for a /ac’.” And
I loved him from that minute. The name
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
TftE f'JAL»; HKAUaKU 1?? HIM A HE tfRF ACTOR.
far; totem was his. from that day, u Oit if . .in' Iris ai*ms against a pile of Iosth. The
he iiul »?A besUafe to interpret it for the soft rim of his tin* bong over his sleeve
UeneUt M iu* nuuKUons family ! was ami bis whole pose betokened utter tvoe.
phased Hr huv^ it W; A. s- I approached him bo lifted bis haee,
Bor somm ping; was wrong haw* Thai, aiub f saw that he l*ad 1>eeji crying*. life
was evident.. "AVi1 hud realized the shadow eyes were sm>k*<n Void wet. a lid hie cheek*
for dviysv but Hod oof taken it '$&>
n* /UR}y 1 Th*v needs'
;*o,i> o.* >ive value to the hhu\ and 3 sat down beside him on the jog*.
tUefo had a! w;> \> beer. bAry days in the l* Why. ok! fellow, tv ! > t» » A thy matter;'1
m ul tarry shadow?* forli tile SteVe ; but the I tysgitij _|>1 1 ; but ;. seeing
lui^jus iiatl ri3?yii iji Eyed hifrf rfi.mil. • t in stoutly, repeiHed , And ¥
a*H a ! sionn rioud that bad been uevt words were b» <p.rhe unoiber too*.
>peni *‘ri ’the bursting;: had darkened au ' k Never miiith old boy : (oil me all about
otvnsomai Uay -- oo»y for the. glonbeation it . ‘ I laid my hi*u>i upon bis arm as J
rtf ey«ning^ >?ppkv.. Ipliia* .:^ymp^Ui^.
My wife Audi osmi ) ly sebrlrd Mjfc;ty wm was loo jumeH for bmp M" fell io sob-
rertaiu weal birr to li 4i;rjrt l> t'ltVu Jjl- foiii r -vvn T% J ^ tjm§p iNwym '•;' l, — .' /,'■• /'■■■'■
ro!rs -and w<> rtsmtUy- fmm4 ftpmcolmrfj “ f I f I don know. boss/' hr beernc to
for Sieve first A ml $J3 5 bad dour f..; duv stammer “ It j bo./ knoy w ba : to say in
N'ijh > polka Jtie uml a sillc iitd as results. you. b h um l inn ugh r as well j'r*. no1/ s* or
I k-fid' iiwu *>n ^y bed ttViif stmfled it BPife^ (tiy o Te tmnWh$Ut}ny
out ».n fri.v Hr* i:in>l\ w ;s ; h m 1 ;o hr sphky {i;-r .name'
lA*vio O-yr* i>mn* w i mi; or-.v f i should >.eo giv big am the ’kt:v In his hem * sue rosv.
him; when. b> edamv- o «>v.>r.i the ' 1-1 I don’ kmiv' why ti*.
wood d^fk fyn t/ty .do w**; siv^y phst rUpul^dy, au r ^ ' ^h* ^ -^.i> * siw-fetU-.
•jpoii u "i»e:*p of -ahips. biiryiitg* Ids face w» aided.' I civil’ i keep Hp w Kl ifor.’1
ir*L tpvw -s* . . s • .. : . • .** . .
1 1 A KrKtt's NKvV MoNTIILV M.A<*
:ut $ha‘s chu- rutiled
<k*rri linw j ailer -
lv ^ * u kk> 1 #«f
fcivhr lt*s irnwr v*a>
iyx> itm> loviu er vofiple
<0i yfVn'&V rhuit wOtl* n
*vifX "o.Mm y Sm* an m*
iil<i> — •
IV’Ok
ijflgfa .:mhhmg xgjtht
S3&f Uk# to iwili
, i-f#M Aril Mifc* u.unpiit
HgRt fta4 kit W:
>tm Uj> Jm.it'fy
jroifhtas. *’ Ha draw ,1mm
3bHT%- iuvoks* li?S kyjfrfc
•)i>d suaiiiitwl i u.> vme*.
j^y^Sgi '•You m\; dte Meali
pmudiaf fVun d* Burk-
yvo—Brar Sa W 8a lid fet^
- — i«e km mjid;... Mi-
y vvt Uiiuvy iM>kd jo ^ Bot
>&#iiit'': lOBjiin * ;#£lB-'; B
fro* .stitih <tk k?0 f|''
— hit ijiur Bij’iie.te **>*mk
Biggws' - js&k mrch^Mj
Uros day liea«.l>. an'
hrkh l*>o>k-. leader au' BhO*?;
sveni Mkv h*v amt Nti«sti»’U lo ynaarh 'It
i f g U uj ns wgfeWft .\we 1 1 ii$*d try e#ti
rfl?, lit’ Oiii: ntutier^ ,dt scn^dlaiM *mi di
vitift gl:acx-- uu" i»a^5niir mmtd& hat;
uii* iyt4ft *»Y*ui p»ayer~«cli,
i Mxv. ui w \\btt)*
J i’ ilo's >v MX* nil,
njt$l laughed ■-
wrv . . j'thi (<•}!
:iTte tHlit 'man vvipad ms *m --
WelJ. s>sih hit s OVs-a-
\\a y .' ' i te hega a - ' % | * i ids dis-
ar way : V y :y yo 0 kmov
whim iuh art Salih v ■' 8mv .
wIhui vvtr inarm'd, v<*v -'’AVct
wh diditt hottifer iiulkjdy
:^fo>Uf; iti: ’• .$&•■;■,
nirirmd. )jnr;itat twii4 Oiu*
sal v ►vs. ^vt ui*' >.olih-i! down
pnWk. ^an#> ;.<--■ h*w jp *t wo
fOruiUowi folk* Ait
\Vffc'it>ekh djvjtt m't vvtfe
OOivtsjB'cti Ji»ljgr fo
der - tut day ahti no Tallin
unikii to hiw. ih 4( t tik ' ;
;V»t tkil-iiiA ' S?U€f ■ slja kiiO^ s i U" '
ai t like w ifv^» rot ay td j o
sto- .htyey jOi? a4 .jgOOd ay I
|oo‘v [,>'.• .tit >k- vtjfiiVn /
^*0 * t £Vttit h g xv u ** Bj
{iiy.'j -. ’i- ^.U“i «r.v -nt*
?! jitiKr - h.m 4g ^Inliaii-
)ook \ '!lll t UUVp: ■■
Lroi-rit4 Kiwlt bi^jl ^nu A*, r,
k&*hU«rkteit)\$ }
kufv favor h^iy
"\’£& 'lr/4r*if \* ' Jfc *2a§
EK tiilK WAS TO ST<iDV ABOUT UITT1 if MAHHJKU BLItCD MAUKV hOMltUODV
’tendin' io dry owu priy&ijs busiuoss, pay hi or iudyiteW and f •vycn.rt' it
fW a Mi !, squished w id ilat, but arter stir- up to yrnii Wr ]( vousuh r [nut a little
.1‘mV >jfi de $»&*:. tell . hft got< lutl fott tic wading \m%j*uL" (Hfe ititd Batinas
naVoorY bench aU'de yether }mlFMttmUii\ \V4ges were always much ' overdrawn \
k\i .v t>w Ird t oyer# stumJin' mmi- dc " You and site ran go <(ui«*Uy into cbuielt
ehuVU df>s <um «k ||| dn/.e heali little paper- on Sunday and have the t-.errmony over,
k.vMi^j vi^a»y Hwi+i like did ought to and be done with it ; hii| I don’t see w liy
:-;i 1 1 - 1; iui — t*ur it dop\ Srrm like he yon— ■
fcee a r\t u.ri- to wake a little money liy He \vus soUbing ngaoi wore ihntt •eveiy
Aipaettru iiougs right gif. let”, an’ so be -and now he l.hiihbemh ‘ ]>a oia d;»i v» inu
say da! blv.l> vb;i been married uc- I say (o SaliiVy Sue: tyb-uni sin* -be-
cordin' lo o>; n«n private jedgrneut is Mi* say iron f Icier no ,‘ ‘
bow* : Or 'ssWp oui an’ git Mamed over ‘' Not have you. boy ; I -inn'i wolyw
at in hi in* pjvscfn e o' tie con^ry^iion, MoubY The ]iMlu f*U'*\Y yr»i£ fu lly in,
an’ wid ib*' In: {don. nl me arid Mart '-'■years my Setnoi\ b'uf t here ‘was surhelh h»g
areadod oat Bmpt:ure lex tea k* prove it. so pathetically childlike in bis grief that
An d;-itVMl *U> trouble. Jft-’tf a man y in\ 1 uu w ifciiiig fy vailed him boy
Vtn 0! at. Hu dtdlurs a enuple ea*h. of ' Vas, sir.*’ be Id a b be mi: "‘dat wb;H
/ley j:i!d r:us5' jv.an' of »uU, he's tab in’ it she way. Sh-slushe. -ay ef She Was to
Out iUbaiiythih^y^^wr fey tHWiije chick Mudy niimii (fittM nut tried, kbe'd mnrry
fe.iu iii'.b ' ^Ci t ^ of • a pa' ii rib* . gripa^' e yedy
rri jsi | u - dot lorn onin d»» ifekuYhb- ;.. ^erb^ebed-up swuet.k%' m.^Sio- .U >•. me
He Wiprti iilx'.tuQk and began iuimirtg Y,Jb\:Mr„ il&t wluiv- -.b*> ^ *n‘ she
b'n,Mv]f yofhbbls hat ; and us »t seemed lo- .Miekibr to H. •<! e.s .is -o,,n ;i> dr .w-u >
n,e euu rni-- .-iu.iji.iort had resolved itself oh' in-r. .sb<- w;,s vhjniru n* ny.r | y* \ sc>rdi)f
ifMo a o /Oiuu v*f .m:\rrkigi-. fee, 1 laugb^J to de ebu eb, Seotp hke ..-d^;. esk *,»' hw*k a
a. glad di^taV^ to ytp*. uTkyx ik plt yged
to ktUMV Unit's ajf3 You and Salina shall consider' We k bout my mo>yey^ • When
54
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
she'd put me to min’ de chi lien, she'd say
Gord set my eyes dat a- way 'caze I was
intended to min’ twins — keep my eye on
bofe at oncet — an' all sech as dat. Satiny
Sue al'ays was a mighty proud lady, an'
I know it'd pleg her to walk up de island
o’ de chu'ch wid a little slope shouldered
man no purtier ’n I is, an’ my bow-legs
too. So I tol' her ef it would ease her
min’ I'd git a pair o’ loose breeches an' a
long coat; but ’tain't no use, sh-sh-slie
won! lis'n to reason, no ways." He was
crying again.
“Why, she doesn't mean it, Steve;
she's only trying you," I urged, and, in-
deed, I felt sure that this was true, though
I was angry enough with her for her
folly.
“ No, sir, she ain't," he wailed. “ She
ain't puttin' me to no tes'; no, sir, she
mean it. She's de high-mindedest 'oman
I ever see, Saliny Sue is, an' dat's one
thing I al'ays is praised her for — her
proudness — an' now she practisin’ it agin
me.
“ Dis ain't de fus' time dis subjec' is been
brung up betwix' us; no, sir. Every now
an’ agin I'd sort o’ hint roun’ about she
an’ me gittin’ married, outspoke, wid a
preacher, an' she'd al'ays turn it off— say
ef she ever took a notion to marry she'd
git a man wid looks an' behavior, an’ all
sech as dat; but I nuver paid no 'tention
in p'tic’iar. I 'lowed she was havin’ her
own fun out o' me; but now I see she
mean it— my Gord. I see she mean it!
“An' not on'y dat. Hit’s got out on
me. An' one or two o' deze lieah low life
niggers dat’s a-sp'ilin' for a better joke,
dey threatenin' me to turn in an' co't
her— an' dey ain’t a bit too good to do
it, nuther. You know Saliny Sue she's a
mighty good-lookin' 'oman to have dat
yardful o' chillen, let alone eve'vbody
lcnowin’ dat she's been fo'ordained to
cook for de angels. She kin git any man
she want. But dey’s one thing I wants
to state right now. I ain't, to say, built
for wrastlin'. but I'm a sho hand wid a
sling shot, an’ ef one o' dein dare devils
tries to pass Saliny Sue's row o' hen-
coops, you'll have me on trial for my
life. An’ dat's put down in de book o’
Revelations — dat's my intention."
I talked with the little fellow for quite
an hour, hoping to help him to a more
optimistic view of the situation; but see-
ing that my words counted for little on
this plane, I veered a bit.
“Well, I tell you wliat I should do,"
I said, finally. “ If I were in your place,
I should play the independent too. Tell
her that you think maybe she’s right,
and that, when it comes to marrying,
you can get lots of pretty young women
— which, no doubt, you could," I added,
mischievously.
“Oh, yas, sir," he interrupted — “yas,
sir, I sho could say dat. No less 'n fo’
peart-lookin' gals curtsied to me a-Suti-
day, cornin' out o’ chu’ch — de same day
de news got out on me — an' one gal — one
gal, she even axed me is I choosed my
company for de bobbecue y it — which I
consider no less 'n a clair insult, an’ she
knowin’ me an' all my fam’Jy. Yas, sir."
It was hard for me to keep my coun-
tenance, the picture of the little fellow in
the new role was so absurd.
“ Well, and what did you say to her?”
I asked.
And now, for the first time, he grinned.
“Oh, I didn’t tell her nothin' in par-
tic'lar. Of co'se I couldn't let her outdo
me in manners, an' she a lady, an' so —
an' so I jes curtsied back, mannerly, an'
presented her wid de flower I had in my
coat collar, an' — ’’
“And what were you doing with a
flower in your coat collar, I d like to
know?’’ I laughed outright at this. But
Steve was quite serious.
“Well, sir" — he spoke in an even voice—
“ I b'lieve in every man dressin’ accordin'
to his station . D'rec'ly Saliny Sue united
wid de preacher to declare dat I was a
single man, I stepped out an’ twis' off de
bigges’ chrysantbe’um on de yaller bush,
an' I stuck it in my collar, an' walk out
in her presence — yas, sir. Of co'se I was
des a-devilin' er, an’ it was my inten-
tion to present it to de lady o' my heart
in de co'se o' de evenin': but Saliny Sue
she ac' so 'bove-ish an' biggoty dat, some-
how, long as I been knowin' her, I didn't
have de courage to walk up an' present
her wid dat chrysanthe'um. So I lef' it
in my collar jes for spite, and Saliny
Sue she seen me when I give it to Nancy,
too ; an' I was glad of it— on'y she was
so mad she wh upped de baby, an' he not
doin' a thing. Dat was de on’ies' thing
I hated."
He stopped talking here for a while,
and seemed to be reflecting. But present-
ly, looking down at himself deprecatinglv
as lie spoke, lie said, slowdy, “Of co'se,
ef I'm boun' to do it, I'll start out an' cot’
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAOAgINg
Vr iiirith 1> b l>*.it look Ilka i 'ain’t got- no figure, although tu^y a#i*e more or levs
(iMoit obvos, scab ely— a I Idem you gmune ‘Moukcn in' at *oihe points" by the unw-
:>m-. knows by chi' floy party well fuJ cku^htor Eory. m»d w *.-:»*•
woe mi: anyhow. You am t got oair in g a Ikr.o/r -upon l* is breast. mAUr ||
ole p;ii> o’ .whim lu-oeek^ is yoii, ma^^r sei>p at ’.•any tune ot Urn d;fv crossAig t he
U~dV ; tm^yW h pair wid a plant) .jiaitfcjrri • *,*f *om% kpug^'/syy*,1
OM oVij. plea^v sir Lucy, our gal, vice to the i&dy of bis Ink i irensmTiaUv
sbt-s lob.wbte handy: wi<j her needle, ?a7* Jie carried a baby m bis arms th|| us..rv
shell ma to sle>v h#.*v Iioav to out often, in rospkd to his courting rfothe-s-. im
Am hw me, Sa liny Hue site love led the little ones by the hand 10 th- w
U> we a 7i<au ;n v, i 14 ( e — .1 often- beeVd er- dlyVH IJ.eavas courting bis old vvife agom
swo — so •• t you got air pair <?■ ducks— .with all the ardor that years of bermum
U seym7* to me ye*., a<- [ mea'I »L ah hod kept warm, and he brought o> t :»»•
though it all haid^oed ?7/any y^irf; Ago. task ail the Avis he knew Inrh.d he
iii u f I have never scm a more pathetic' even summoned to his hid Mum- that lw
iililv iigtiro than Una of Mn* dummU-i-ve dul not know, ami was oiM.-..t mined 1 1
rejected hnsha ml, Sieve ; during tWfoH- teyrrnvy as, for instance, the wriunu m
night following toy interview with him mJmr.Ttm>: h>vWverses for Wtmi**. t w in the
on the y\tiod - pile. Arrstyvd io second witirr of lilts ■ pitiful IiU]e mnn-dy ik n-
humi clothes much too: large for hte -Ad ip?. &pou*il>h\ and into which ire tried in u?
fuse h hpd
cere as tu :di gfi fify Th e . noy-aj syd$h$y :
Mcst of these pomes'" vrero- xyoe
mtllv .brought inio Uw body 4>f
certain pros*4 ^ frtfaHlriijia
fmn kiye&Tled ‘ ■ joyed y^Tfty
t u>h up to the rhyming- point. titer-
ally by fete OW n djcmt'mn, ami.
harping the iW.t Uiiit Un-re shunt. I
he hi them. tui allusion to m\y
fa*. . '\V * -family I’Chuions—lit* declared lhar
'ij;iU>uTd ' lii^. co’Uid - same as any
•' h iVVn yo.U — he left - me <jn'rHe frm.
. ./; ;. A \i«l as ] k»i^\v t l*/*l yho liith*
brurlroo-vero'-ohi daugiiter. Lucy,
JP ; -y-y hyyiiihl hMTP tp fs^d tbprn UyJT^r
1 at \V!»y^ con.seron.s of
^ a qortatH edunalional respohsUkJitv
jj^p wH^H| 5jv y; in the matted ;; fp fhe
pf th esc p c i «U*
lB boHig about ?;vejry llirce or four
\^W J *K *WM day^ but Ihyy wqh repeated Ihem-
M • svdyes •■iahy. 'This i< Uw way vf
;;;fUe:-ln)pe(=u»ntK
vl m liardly hiTvc ohUhoiod fr* tiie
Ak . -ft "P ’ - k Mi uaiHiii T* n t. Tor the Omswm "f
; ^ *■ -^icii!rii«|i4ppc^v . . f
-r/ia^fMders Of
<iue of the SHCfKt
values, glorifying the Ujfealom:d
heyoudite ■ i iffri ny
pussc^si hit eyed
sic hieihT^omHiijie^ : jw
Du ring Uws period of hopi..fo.t
a iul limed prohaiKJiV U?e i it Ur Uo
I »UjhI Sit hm. tl«r grea I Wi
wmVm » | " - <>t lifts ■ life vy.s ;»f> jlny^ThT i
then v*f bless- itm's-. H e \v.;‘- ^
aidgli ty seiumiy-' ly^yer tlte^y dkhyv
Anal, fer ihe hi>i. Ub^yfii; }io- ht--
ttJHr of his km«llty hi fry be was ley
ix liysritil'T to ms <: o r ku m; e no r a ks
mm
WJH1.K RIGHT AX'* TKC’K
«>BV DBM BKVKJAXM
C^MMiially .< pfciu.I^if: father Tilings But when tlie.v tumliled in a heap, bumped
we^ lhivii for i;im f ornetitne^; ha. tor in- ami hawiititf, he relumed to the eVien.i of
sisnnr*. *vWit ittfe t>via»» fcat ami grained . .playingr horsy for Ho m on ail -fou?S :« ! k
hdn h hen Saiimi ordered 1dm (o " walk the forenoon.
rt£ h > in mi' leek mV deni bro«ran^v uhd Nearly thre& freeks passed w it hfUit any
lie eapstrHibvd t(* obey in .nlehSfS y^>jpareiVt chaogein >he
}£ £Cm?s. without saying that he had air re v Nat i 0 ee I i n were si ra \v i n g t o a e i^Ve;
wav* her, but in tfc qM ij.ays hv of" ^tdiur^h itveiri
li.»a Mt free a IitHe over if in bcr-shi-)* wav nearly over, Sul inn anti
woody fashum,-** m a way v*ftli hnsb&ijtta Su*v«j -I iii regular am (nianls nr the
p$t ftfel • their it-y : . Of
-“'one m U»e • iuse of tire shoes; lie knew pewv ami though Wh >/uied Imtfily in
that *V»#. '.v;i.s riyht. It im# foolish to by . the K-nnmi«jr of Hi* li.vhius, thyk voices
aeav-uy ont shoe feiiho- on week -days. ■* were; a- Sieve had ;> voice >lutt ;«1;
Beatdtrs hi^, earth dodog: feet were piny ivy* jpt^d i*U)m in any ordinary cm*
ish**i hr, Hu* i r » khd Ive w f^^ffou/hn mhHrc how inany drug 11m
glad tiy have tWm fW:$Nv This,; however,; ' ‘ same ward* to tire ku'my fumy and the it
d:d urn vnmyatc Ids liumVIiatioN in the Siilt was Hme he aeemrd to lend I he ^ i
ey es of she children ■•whom he hud hiu- , mg’ winch 'was far from the truth Sreve
oived, ami lo o?ee them ohroiMy over it urver led in nuvHmie Jn his life. The
wh-^ my*rc lh?m hVeoiihl stand; turd it it* fact \Vas that. ■*$ ;is often the can* w Ha
said ?h:r.t iiT tht». itderyal hr* twice .shook Stria} 1 nuoi, ids yed<*e. ii lii^h t.Mioiy \\'i>.
ihc tvrio^ uulil fhe>mvdnn‘perrd. and that roach f-.u; Mrtte for !iU i)oi]y, .hm! uToHj
on^. c||hh)i^d to 1UV he. rthih hk« m^rht tlih vt>; \u hS
ahoviidem Hh sudxieniv stood 'dp, h-iuinr hi eh ae.d .vuf. iij -hit ms., dtrd 1i>s
M.vyo fad av rhe;; mi^ht, rt*iua rkt n^; ns f .*;«•♦; h*;.'v hi.,- fnc-S of pt;y^}Cj|| pj-in. .
he walktsV utf, . • l ain ! no >p»m dud.de r th.h o«n. >e.*;MU him. e\v;t lhoi»*.-ji Inf.
tjaat
r%lii
Kfsirf rig ont
Sin'
FWi()^t liiii
imrllT
ncwr Iwi in:.
immtitg in i.
S Jifiy ThV* '
:-** 1
fact vVtfs ithaf
.s h often ti
e ek.sy wftjv
Sttiail ndvih
$ yrtitty, u hi^l
1 t.OH>r \\}H*
rtin^'ly;hii!S\ha’y
Im .^h^^rtoth
th- far hU lioiji
iif<« tldj^ht t hh
r, aifd/vvhtHv: S >;yT:- •:•
• ♦ •■«•.-. '> he-
II AR FE R'B K E W MOSTHW MAGAZINE
$0 poor i 0 AToiart t Zion as now.
A « « i fV£ ly ‘M til t Oil £fh Ht >m<r fit] i
:$%• h<w cOuM they UtV;
AiersUohik ' ’ \ •' ;. :'yi: gkyh
The iraVh of i)>t* AilimUou:
pm &&;}*. : *' ‘ ;■ . ■ V '•
yBiyve know lliut Selina Ti ail
always - liked h|k singing:, and
he sung /<? hw'fr# lily* fu her—
as M-tt J }\: as.'imo4 he* bird sang
k» his nmie. But even Batina —
nut being a Hen*iUve soul-'
ethiid not know tli is. And
yel *}ie was x 1^:
ifeitigs: Fur ex an i ply Lbayhrt i
Biyve.&at be g o i id thy yan^ Wf
Iter vision ill a :
discerned hik facie w|t h low
rnrudal utVes
•S*ay« before her usv 1*0 *to|i g* — ^
yirehu on & d i storted, a ml , for
|.)k* lirst iiine in llndr Livekdk-
iv-ii n 1; . Sh e even kite l Uy
places iii Aim up hotte* where:
hh heels left the ilfivir. [mill
thy ., long; siyetchos ! vvh^jie IVe
xlnteb^i ihebFutdv ;fif- Hit: ptnv
hvf>U0\bdn \Viiii fh» nervous
li tile b a hd% adit ft rgn&e h^r a
Vivace pleasure to smi tu'/tf-te
liyipiifm# Join itistMi-imsly >n
yotee of ids tWiebe*. or to la vj
byhi fid, 1 ea v \ u g if is .si nuder
s&nK ■ AVftr* worthy, would he mow apt k« thread tool e*hn re, while she f’ol lowed rm-
he Surry f ban ydad when he sajLf|$ jesfteali y* .tikis' Clonpaini m hr r Ungv
Sikttewlh nix wise' A’ ifoiil, h^d Thi*? jittte comedy was
u'w:»u hi ken great pride iff Ids slngingy •• Hfbr night during the three; weeks" ser-
ai »d she had a way of throwing her ve) ■..vires -Steve singing for Salinu, Balina
vely voice itll . ?M4*>h nil the sharp edgW of singing against- Buoy and numwly^&a:
it ?IS they laur b»g>dhce, sjyudiwjg side by she wob'ih the ^tre, Vr.a> ••dir fet*<’ in p*u?-
•side m the •*hi»rc!v;hHhvg (ho r*x:>f with -a t itlar sympalhy, .Imh^d. ^vei-v hod.v >v.^
idcasmg harmoiiy, so S&'ut u was U;uc, in on Steve's sKju fnun ihu ih^h and fjie !«mv
;i sense, that she am! Slev^. nWefhcr h;ul. ' wlmwither fur lack Mihnt^re-it or Umuigh
for ■ years (mi (he Mngnig. hVrhaps she discn- Unm. had u<Vt ' expressed Ihemsefve^
Would have I'.ui n u ulnuii Umil hitherto, derdared that vvlien thfey ie*a rd
Did now, in I'he very crisis of tilings, it pfhful ” fiirjli urlrv" they were
in iUUed her to hear Bier* s voice ring end iou .n,id u? look at Si. -dev Balimt Buy. .
cb-M' and strung. It see mini fo jiroebmn h hwr r ?,o kdijng how h^»g Baiuuds
hinf sufjevior in the siiaaDon, and thfifc an uhrluracy wut||^ juv.vu h«*ld out, ;»;* h;d.-vd,
gnred hoc Nor Witk she one to deeune ;» "hois the ritorv would have eudeil -* i hough
ci.uMengc if Stove con hi sing, ho could m the. unitin' of things Utnr serins h»*t
she so did sin; hhc -siMg fov :d J K.he mi- nni urn l emud n>.i‘uu - bn J for t he hid.
-vas ro-.fih -v;u*g hi *• >:-< •? ;«Md t«*ndevr ,. {(ml just uti IoS Mini omtc'i ii * n - ha pfiened.
h«0 via- -an- i»VUv fri»n» Sic-s m> brnger LiiHe Miii(?.WJ% r/uhiinmk khOWH OH
proiiVting bui bi-ir.oOa: hhu h.V v v«* t-v f be jdaee us lb«- Hhddi«- t-ri {dor. “ u;i;s
Imfui mni ,oi hey t|e.s;<\,b-; n.i.g '.vhiei, . «ne d;i \ >i'umg on.Uu* r-a nam; where
Airnck hi* acyb’* O. i.-.tvUnt Tbv ■ -bn bnd e] untied -bU; a nu.'. muO oium’ ^
Mtxghw way ueivei* id oivye ko hii^ and nidu” lining drawii (o lierd^Ui in the mu-
fc'F feXE VE MM V U AO A MWJUt
TIIE SECOND WOOING OF SALT N A SUE.
ehmery of lb«* that old shout- M Well -of. co'se — baby — if* too fofofo-
ini* Sam.- Wk» of Ufo .chief diymlam-H on f A 1 k about d fo-wK <i*e falitred/ " Mifs
*m. pkK-o. »n '>^vr for "iiiV, thrust her off too fofoao folk ahoid it ni.-.v, hot M Id if
;;t f(‘: hamlfo. In ifo'fall her cok Unw; ud •< M vo-foe jjw « hs ; j d V piefod out
for hour wu> broken and die was brought nowchmhi -w hi for [ w». i{ pirk of to*! it s
hofor for hoa<h o>i}»* wed by a. procession too JufoymrW Ef Ld 'try /to sen' Slrve
d vhhuen and children. a- way no a . iookiilw da eltUlkn d oil turn
VV’j^n hy the 3iev& fy&gvl «s'ft/ h^ide^. Mteyo udfo to s&jf
j tia’ fo> -was | -hwfo mao. and rudm. £ lie aof MUfoi) to ( .uhi out. , » whhfot 0,,'h,
ir<fb fhjfe cahhh 1kt snatched up the oh tftjf of* d fofobdotr wn] dsiL huh on hi* fobd*
froo, SiMfio > lap and held her on his owfo A.ndfo pnvtriun* s;-v <fot v.t i. was l<osoi'
cmv.om- 'her with kisses nod tears while to: oilf 1 coubln ( pas* tor. a w older,' "Md
n^iMi-Hbv<*v s^rv applied* 5av l wouhini he- no twin *t nfo ru ■••
;> s \ . ^vas io*< s» on. to eome onr of the whelk i? seeni' to »iit, widitB fo-m ohiifofo
cabin when the erowd dispersed ~~ and thd w $1 1 1 d he- H d isg ttbt'ik
is ?iii that any one knows or* the stihieel Bui ltd &j| ;S*tib*<! n,»w ;,*n’ e. ft ^r>v ? iio
ft. was oti (he second morning after be, married nex* Sa.f today week. I had to
tkfo ' • . i ■ ; . • f ‘ ' that Salim* herself trudgea put it off a week or *t», vo. im -an "J sut :+■■ ?i
\>[Mo ?he honcr and asked to seeJier sios have ti ijf »e U> git om- riots ready I
tifei$ As ^nn -as mv wife- saw fori- Afe done took u ji de ifounis u * len t pants (ii^*
knew tfoii the chutcl had passed, for $-Jie for £U? Sfoy'^..: fill Ins phfisiteoitv coal,. t’lj
hot e hersriy wtrh beaimu.g complacency mnv.g&v it over un' press it good ; an ' «fo.
rw having /on-tsted at lfo> done #%lie ap-
{n.s»avhnt| the ciojiiy rocker facing her
' l;iia.»se. nnfam. ux me to sot dow n/' ~
she i>n;an, noth a ghiiico at the chiur >i?yC^v
• l £'>[ i\ w>i to folk ah«>ut dis nn»ruior/’ :.A-
^fow<{top>>^d| into the ednin* khd
c-oswf fo r eyes lor a moment, .swurihg'. ' / /fo
Tiiydiofi of !:yr ehaic. ^ Imt ^ ^ > >v^l
!. rod '■ ot uh* you reckon 1 gvvino heT’ • v : ^ r. /vf
chuHifod tupjTtly u- she sa«d it, hut only ? ^ ^
• •» •*»-■ ■ ;vdif/<ovVn' ihs tnornin' pn’ a hu? i y ,
Karr a vi-)n;le hvidcs oultit, foiKofo ^
knowing that thor^ is in> . . mBKr
. ih X|>.r«^.seii iio surprise <»r ahni^c-
no ot ■•K •K>- picture so^crsled. of hit old J ■
i/oor w- in-vo s. f riv'.m:., Ui ,s rear Uc- fuaiU-r
yy; aK ! V. A oil V. }iayin- >o> hvi^.V i.o
UM‘ iron to for iforw Khn «trrd ay;h?<: ; T
t in gidtl Vo:tu have: eomi? to yr>iM'
semes, l doi/t »cc. how voti Ifosiiafed/4 “ijfi san*. to «j?:tt/'
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
preacher. Ue's got marry in hat. rOvVloves: doi Lii’v. — h I h;*4 \i —right ijow of Steve
t<> hire for ten cetm, ah' rings #:- itlier f/J ou'y had a no¥er sh%p* im' som- ?r/V *i/i to
• hire or sHi; Steve /Jknie bought <fje ring, hint. for vie passage op d<> r\h<n.I H a,*
;:t ft [({*>/(« oenH a *vH*k fopi noyv telj rdpiVh. lid % worse 'n a -■•a l-.tv walk, *k;
w av our folks- ■passe* remarks on krHH
PO tXTTl.1? i.cot
J ;‘V" ’n. /•; !• j » :4 ]
j’li’!|'<|jp,Vi(
‘
1 • , - ' '
couples tv' l.i fed .tfey, 's'ieu^ipnjj
vi* U i*L
iwHw
mm
1®.
At*' p<V little Lucy sin gva
y*:'$4ik ‘*£
hnild too: an' so Steris ]». ^
^;.’I sho/-
THE SECOND WOOING OF S ALIN A SUE
m $ 3 i > . lUt quirk hh Wjt.oh‘ U iimnlift* de rbii inn- ']£$ rvv :m’
, L« > eves cUi* S-H- her pa, Avhat Vipi de Uvins, Look bke dp whole rivovb*
. .*.1. -L* dmpy an U*'r fiU,lv» rulj^Miunr' ft \v ail uk oii ‘ins
■/Ut'Uytf Mo* She Ilf InuAltUf’ utTfl 1 Jh) ftlM Umig' i dope whrn W*‘ ybt ♦,ll-
ilp au‘ >.t Vntuk fw»! }V*’i ;mT rjeit*' ifft#**} ♦jvm* .«u*iu l.\Yo< »p >»wk hbr. in
iv.v.f -.v» v ■ »v ;<t 4|i - > t * , i a*i* piiH-'mv u»* »*«•]< oif chon d.u-k hi-iweLi.*' an' pnl
- . •• »• ,;ih hoj i.U hirbl jiWvo- <i}i A>fik wo.djr-p eioV>. i ti i i<* v*v - h.«-V
Bit* h*ir*j tfijrf wiped hr.r ’eyes, ' sneered yfitf JeA *.(urhTd #
’ I * k marker an* inisfas, ,'ef iii Ik'V all LL. life. A i&irp-* won
A >$, Ljf *he ha*l u d*e<| r»ir M’ im -oil ri got Aim ?k WGh 5 umv *r*»
wpJ >r |m; I n»v*f would Ar^Ufin'] furglti'k- • >n«v<£i>'fl*>ivr»' wiralh.
a ;*.>•,? ?;**’■ 1* Oil |&nh mwer wlmhl Misljis.ftfk --- \V hai <k.it .t-ftir Tits. I
! - »i vA P ii i r*i v.f* t* ! j v know 5% luoii^hf yii frevii
«’•• •*••’ • yv"ut:- yns nm\ ids'll ow. f > ; * t — but — iml dry d look
? I>r MX '•<>: 3^|fe **•*• in p UHlOlt*4 <T:»i Tlib/hiy (ilfilj). l)k(.\ lluill im; Up
•>•; r i y hr "rw.Af prr un. ■«<! (mi- some rea] mi pm* final r>/N ih^vrts,
k r..x •.*:»• r';*K»>! • — ntr :4^. iaue*i» Jiiilp ihu • -Au'. 1 1! h<* y*hjd •• \\ • )i V r.l'l
rk*r ;'i v,'h>k-. 'I. <;.*•.»?;• >iiO‘ do a err Jliil iifief jVH'- fool'd
ym\Un\ V\,ykvi*ym umjpr do rw ul *ake, g\i iu;irri<-d I rlond
n'i oi . 1.5!ixri»tiCli<ifo .Wk; iiuieii Marl: tt* iiiafryiik. u<.iu*'\ ,
•'■••* ■* P* ».l kt r f* vi s HgiilU, iiftd . •• I vUHj|du,{ inHr b U.^jun <.»'
• ^ y -v-mHuly iJriujr^ t»Micli!tJ5r ^mnCrohln^rluH >prvty HantiAd y ror kOsso
Je*r { i ((: ifsyit \u< re?=|.r>n>i id hi je*- - H\ wtdtf **ti'
tliktr —Rifely 4|t|ft liqliO'f;-
l?» - * h Vyf , 3 1 tvi?ye thrp V do] iku W
h * 5 *}r 4 id* I ijsifi tv tel 1 1 il of iter
4 l^etrajffd ;/, ButvCy^
• ' Hh* i>*tiOr fur it **ForU<>nf nursy
* Well t |«i|4 T>rPsoHOy ( 1 - l|(^^k k roi.Iodk III
1 mu** 0 -tf# jur t^k p€Tt»; >tii ‘ I ^vim? if iiim Sbtlnr‘ di »1e hnby',
•;»' sri*uo/ftwk ;ur *;l^ v^ii dp wliule ero\td Imriiwl up lirpgiri
^ Tn> rr u you say iritexyi ; An* muud <\v yard-- an
'rjiyj'V* i- ebossy rM. He sIk*
1 I V U;.d i . Hia pm. J^ury im' 8im licit.
•* tn i.f- proud ‘vhen F udl 'i^y-V^ajt How rbuld 1 ever IbcujrM ufiour
1 »Kt<h wfek yoii mW sed Sieve's face stqfdxti’ ’iii
4^ you
f*H}\ Wog^v>fvP ioavp ii nil id you., ipn .<■•
pm’ VpaiNUp VA:li. I Ml So
Slu* bad >•!.:»< tr i »pi. n;pi iuu vdu> ;-o?
fa lii*V ik>or btiO IvuiSi Oiti bliU>]Nrpr.
^ev^l'jpslnnk
l,s cH’ia^re an Ale
n' liim
Ire grinpily lik6 rt
is earned ilat one
m
w
iM
y®
laM|
Si
Go gle
Original from
SETY OF MICHIGAN
TiiK white mm$%
r>v fc’REDBfuc
IM-fiXAt . tfi$ Tiiiii - t^i3* vvor>>i - work ihe
, HjjjQp^iv i it r Jj$ r u» i st a u d :*»dd I >i»>v >* «i» tfu* si red* Uir lilth* v\.
musk, of ^:^:;Ywlc' iimiiiu ^ ^v>i^v draw mg' \ he*r ioad^ vyc*t*
il. w.a* .u ivAusl‘r)i'- ;>vhHtiWvtth rim^, /vUM>* Uiviv oTt^
*»»;<: i< .»! i ! • f ' ; •• i x i i<l Krr-»it;!.! <! « MM'.-; vf- { led ;d i-at'fi ol .ii;-r t j it $ > i
- WyHr-- *utf jj* tli-fr \vo ;^aiid tfn'a? tlu- ;
of NVUidv^vs. TiiWi is t'tH:fLT\ ill \hi> I »«.'<*; »;
^»|k Odfde^U UVon Xo'rthcfti ,nv
M-nar :U ysH'i.fiv ’‘VvJiV r\<.ri,}:i if* \v ; <»iv/i- ; \V hy or*.
f ' down • " s;« id -^ie^fd
urr«l^ til*.’- grand V \v K v • « m ' r-atciattai - V4i*<
V&w ItVr of tll« Hi, ti'OojU'-:4-.
t jtwmim <Vln*re Bof. ( !u: rrvij.*v.vs *d tin did »•**!
tlie iVi i*. Vii •- tniHU i h mug'if «F- ’ode
Uj£ •■J.'r.r.UH ay <Aa.1rr rif t ;»r fiOOd Udo. l» V> <" v^uH-i-d l'!*' V'M t$ i*J‘ M»r'.v U>
-a^ :> bhi^rf^i •vifMv trtftii « idn^-rfu! m itr- >i.;v’\v-~ {<. -i*Mn|d ii.^ iMooth and
(imugk thf fru^t .v^ oii. tlitV^ajiu^ f«M *U Witt; w&nted to find- the.
fry'H
WHITE FOREST
iiij* • Iftifeti mitsuh* fu .ehallrJj&e wme nearly four feet- of snow v».n ,Uuv
*'»enst !\ rl|t .an- wool lehiy and f<> >!»• ^rotii.d. si* that 1 i if* r.'*:ol TwU.woon
«■; .;•« '.xU ' of jf* rn>-ry\ . Ae<v*rt)o4/;- tfe fences was drifted full. ■■hoy
>.* , ^ ► . , , ; = ; ; - i f :« wj.se mind wfeV sold .\\m ht.ibitiitiix U> 'nark out i«if ‘iiu •<• n’iiv
h»>.;c >U >,*-*. bl&ojifetjft nioecjAmig, and who *• vtM*^r* f:?i nee* through t.hfer iu m*.
* out h>: dv*I -iu good business. Far apart over fife a*}i it<- htmHcnfe' are
' ' dr<*vv at St ,I\Vynn/ml *>r i#i «el IPr Jitllu French ***.»; I.a^s u jtti litrir
sahl tti.y .^orifpartu#Hv •tmmh VfSife* They ar<yM> coxiiy Idimljy'.
• ;i of the verily ,,f convention in *>fe\v' ami the rough, from tiff? vaffey.
V>- . i\* h%> $m«A oo tioMHtfr of 1i»n. tiO‘.v jo ftrrihffjr; is-olan- tlmm. iMnnigr uioni;
vpp^j *&n life of yiffei maid we met the hm of
'•-•a. .•’ ;• rmlfvps. who ran theiv. o(i il»r
V/v‘ -vvil her**. aiirrieave so eatdy road into- U»r snow half-wav tip rhthr
:• / ivili HO) hr OKI of fed lndd femes' ‘side*:. but bln* *Mgr» were. Hat .
* m ftfeny . hot «f Quehe!'' vvim^ awake and iloalcd. na it were. Ftct.iiresqu' 1(1
&A>{ i«i. -the WfMiiyl: ui>t loxv^ w^th tucpie^, rod Hashes, and fur
hof i iK t.o;ni iu lionor nor Strangeness coals. vv li W hmiUed faros, and whiskers
^ty;i ghr<'<- hreiMi.sc it ft&ttji} see no- under I heir ohm. after ihe fashion
'hio itr-v M. us ' iinddros^ ua? did. Wfe of the early thfeiov 'flu feh'Uw Imht
£iUy pm hn thv^e imvs.'ot.’&Kks- ofift -one. i<tni* dirfiVh bother their brads afeut, life
yn** of lined moccasins, hut wo new things, which is fh« ‘ g«yU reason why
*<7? )4jn%fe Uisr. t** #11 xva had. '.'V J : '{-T • »/' \ . %S
. 1 Iv' ;.;y ,y
iv • {Uv Ttiagsmude of hr*.
.te* wl t4 - - ';',hb' '’: -." ■
.UfytV.EKSt-TY'.qF MICHIGAN
HARPEK& NEW MONTWIA MAGAZINE.
'/ ■ ; > i y y : .V ‘Kf\H' LaretP- 'lu-ugbiogly .saiid, j^nety
so<rn you Hiiijc dp; >iio'VV;' ^IJw^o'-Vik^oI^S;
IT -p* ‘ tia ¥ii*jg. drv# hged to 1 m b 1 t'U*
jP i«M‘o lUv “Inaili ' i&tii fifty; \Vi on '^.’.vi,
F . t ; fOr lju> mghi in thy warm cuhm. im-lou
V >:. '•* jl i)i aiid bulbed fey inir Erenph
>; - \ •b^S^mr!n!4^l^»iK was the lasUm \% ii IhU*h.V;
flj^K .say for ‘good-night A T
*V?£V /vP^> -W,I1, SfHli o' til MO N.‘i\ S ‘ PiUiv^vV;*rf /
l^PJ? WT- . ami son A o’ lliim sa\ k‘ 1:1 ting way ’ A hut
mme of; them. I imughie, say it. joist -idav
•' *v Mr. O^haumilirm.
^ ht-V With the daylichi our bid begad :Uj
' abound with the activities of i lie crux I
day. A gilltle had a going; tifUl >1 »*:
, jjH^ynPPv O’ShruiuaJjaii Stood *yarmUtj£ blrosH f
d. The Efcsex inxiptiv, hn.v jpg ve-
dueed 'hrmself to the l*uiF( pvH on mu «.h(
; v..,v 1 pair »t‘ worn? sins and walked not into
tin* MiuwV Tim New Jersey thgrmOfm'b'r
Ayliich Wo bad tvvo'ugld aloi)^ to ay put
TB*-:$$$KX,'x!ipww. . have «A yet gpithn kecli mated* ?
) --An r*<i 5* b«v|o n /or* »,
/--•* •’»;! j *-u umdiy t hrmv a book
i !*•' v ,<r«* (in- ir r'.'n. contented people in et yd’ water thy i^ekf’ |ie asked .
Amenta/ .but in-nb *t»i*jdii- a> vied have hewn asked
A .The hid lifnt watch <lo«; barked at us 0/ kindly *dn'«<i iin> E.ssc.v trooper y/dh
U'*u<\ every V’niUiire, and. afiet* tin- unui- a ^n,, (-• \>* h\r lum witi, '.n :t\(*. Hebe
nyn 'nf all Jn.uiKsI in>n>»; 'loa^. cIch^kI uS, *yv«uid havn nviiUur icn-wcUniv ri He*, nor
\N iUi -kiiii!t*»! lips iuui n> WV axe On lus pi.nrs m«m!
w:iil«al utitii tbny wuon {war !o tljn ico.v Wl l k'rtW >hv sinto |rt|i,i, < ’-nil ihn pf (be
hurloai*. wljf*M u>‘ monawd ilitun with lire |>*f< b, and d«»v, v-«! imii. w i.tli tfu>‘
whip, whereat they Hpr:M»<r from Urn hard desiiyil w aMu\ »a hnn lie o>pnml inio.
roufi ilHO tlrn «ott^H/ivy. 0i‘tUir out of vtd'od.fixd he aao With hi-.. i*ra>.h rowed TO
iii it . wln.'.tv titor thnOnlnriUH iuadc ms «uh for thr ^eo’iion SrMo>_ thm M.r
laugh iojid and long, !>ogs do uoi tike ki'Sha ir.iuiran wwi? {^mirbinK l said,
«•» on laughed a;, and it U :so -.ohk»m "' VVh.o do v mM hi ok of -* hoi ,k a. •"
gets t'-vnu w ith l]m way side pup. " 1 h .ilu'lbc a uriui i*v rJ w ilt dlf. I.m» i hr.
Vi trrsh.-uinuhanV w- W<;-V(> put. up it* sohip uV t.!n.s >knvo us to ho ha\ ok' »hr
Umjtifiu t-Iu.h •«c*ihhi ami Hind** eoinfoK l«nk»-s nv v*?/ pour ipo- wat lion down otH
p hh; t hkrd ( VV*,‘\ (hioy in 5iu- roiiio , V >poH^O'
exonpt ihr rough look of the IlHIg, knOW-V AVr. ^ ^oaoUahan r< tlcchui and bunched
the white
tfjiiv bo& si&vo, saying; If* now m before be wy.^ satisfied M yiur eoiiflt
guud -u year, Vii )i t ui did say & raon do fcion tor hutdiiutigjng, Wo- sunk from
mooch the loijcef av that wan da>\ He eteht to t*oi iuuh**s in rpe soft an^wd The
div*)sOul ti irn^iC hv his last fcfcitch, .<tn’ raking of the ^K»wM>Wr<h‘ ‘-r > 1 » ;*<dcet Mbs
• li v iibemM f wint oiU ah' row led hhtfsiif u?i Jung ^.n«l ankle and hkn with killing
in the show. ■ T.h4t before brikfast, tpt>in(L force. Like ^verjthia^ might
y* . Of ye no doubt lies accustomed. iu logy pu> say ten
A v tlifc ISjfteq? av Ufo* tlng*do l>e j^oatu pottfuls extra uii eU\*U tsei wf tpip*. hdf he*,
an, an fv raypuried down en the IVthv v^mld- huvp^tfyfol#* ;o.iore, ,Ut&n;;s* d*yhal
rmnT. Mu-yil b* havin' j law for >h — it, .The (<*i s}nr:U,.<n emne* iu streams.
mnitV the nade.7, which Mmwcd tie-* gaud of O^dm-unuiun/s
AJter bTOiiHiisil, a handmi pounds -.hxC jiidgniffol. ... Bvyrfa** before we had g(ynt$
o<u* war m:tferi<yl w us loaded dir vaHi three i?iilt<A we feHn to untfoi'SkUiid f-hc
toboggan We girded on our $nmr-shue$ ini. spike /*>!’ not wearing our foeyy dollars’
abd started *>ut Ufobre&It trail for tine woKlt rrf »i>ok^ Alhf>' had our mor-
I kVtow more arduous cosing on the. unUrdfi»;ur next to the suoav-
wa«k . Arid while i he weather was very shoes They got damp. froze into some-
ftribi. Mr .SlixiUi u^lia. n undriissed thing like siieetami^ ajid had a tin a ifce*-
iinjVi!
IHJliiif
&<• 5/1 >
SM
pm
. i •> .
• TO .1*
^TVoS
| i JL ’ fjfo s ^
r' &$
jT.rr - * ,
■■ J
66
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
glaze on their bottoms, which made them
slip and slide backward and forward on
the snow-shoes.
After three miles, Bebe readjusted and
tied my moccasins, when Oliver, the
cook, who was a very intelligent man,
mopped his forehead with his shirt sleeve,
and observed:
“ Excuse me, I t'ink you bettair go
back dose cabain — you are not fix hup
more propair for dees beesness. Ma dear
fren’, dose man een Quebec what sol1 you
dose t’ing” — and here his quiet, patient
personality was almost overcome, this
human reflection of the long Northern
winter could not calm himself, so he
blurted, in his peaceful way — “dose man
een Quebec dey weare know nothing.”
We were in the light of a great truth
— the shoes would not stay on — the
thongs cut our toes — we had outlived our
usefulness as trail-breakers, and we suc-
cumbed. The back track was one of my
greatest misfortunes in life, but it was
such a measly lot of cold-finger, frozen-
toe, slip-down detail that I will forbear.
My companions were equally unfortu-
nate; so when we finally fell into the
arms of Mr. O’Shannahan, he said:
“ Ah, a great hardship. Oi will make
that matter plain to yez.”
The sledges had deposited their loads
half-way up the trail, the guides coming
back for the night.
Next morning the remainder of our
stuff was loaded, and with renewed faith
we strode forth. The snow-shoes were
now all right, and, with five pail’s of socks
apiece — one outside the moccasins — the
thongs could not eat our toes. We took
photographs of our moccasins — unwhole-
some, swollen things — and dedicated the
plates to Mr. Kipling as “ the feet of the
young men.”
The country of the Little Saguenay is
as rough as any part of the Rocky Moun-
tains. It is the custom to dress lightly
for travelling, notwithstanding the 20°
below zero, and even then one perspires
very freely, making it impossible to stop
long for a rest, on account of the chill of
the open pores. Ice forms on eyebrow,
hair, and mustache, while the sweat freezes
in scales on the back of one’s neck. The
snow falls from the trees on the voyager,
and melting slightly from the heat of
the bod y, forms cakes of ice. Shades of
Nansen and all the arctic men ! I do not
understand why they are not all pillars
of ice, unless it be that there are no trees
to dump snow on them. The spruce and
hemlock of these parts all point upwards
as straight as one could set a lance, to
resist the constant fall of snow. If one
leaned ever so little out of the perpen-
dicular, it could not survive the tremen-
dous average of fifty feet of snowfall
each winter. Their branches, too, do not
grow long, else they would snap under
the weight. Every needle on the ever-
greens has its little burden of white, and
without intermission the snow comes sift-
ing down from the sky through the hush
of the winter. When we stopped, and
the creak of the snow-shoes was still, we
could almost hear our hearts beat. We
could certainly hear the cracking of the
tobacco burning in our pipes. It had a
soothing, an almost seductive influence,
that muffle of snow. So solemn is it, so
little you feel yourself, that it is a con-
sciousness which brings unconsciousness,
and the calm white forest is almost dead-
ening in its beauty. The winter forest
means death.
Then came the guides dragging their
toboggans, and we could hear them pant
and grunt and creak and slip; how they
manage the fearful work is quite beyond
me. Used to it, I suppose. So are pack-
mules; but think of the generations of
suffering behind this which alone makes
it possible. The men of the pack, the
paddle, snow-shoe, toboggan, and axe do
harder, more exhausting work than any
other set of people; they are nearer to
the primitive strain against the world of
matter than are other men— they are the
“ wheelers,” so to -speak.
The last stage up the mountain was a
lung-burster, but finally we got to a lake,
which was our objective. It was smooth.
“Let us take off these instruments of
torture and rest our feet on the smooth
going,”said we, in our innocence, and we
undid a snow-shoe each. The released
foot went into the snow up to our mid-
dles, and into water besides. We resumed
our snow-shoe, but the wet moccasins
coming in contact with the chill air be-
came as iron. Our frozen snow-shoe
thongs were wires of steel. Our hands
were cold with the work of readjustment,
our bodies chilled with the waiting. It
was a bad half-hour before the cabin was
reached. WTe built a fire, but the provi-
sions had not come up, so we sat around
and gazed with glaring eyes at each otli-
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
uak iMz$ XvAx monthly um&ziSK
ei\ ; The E>sr\ trooper arid 1 tidied of sm>W~s]mein£\ and saw many fcimbnu hm
<*:> 1 if t the oh! Yale sLm};t\ who was >ttw i i i r su w ?i> li* si .1.1* i-myl'M i«:s. or In aw)
brimpaniou but wo -a*; reed h*> w us too hk* aril), wrtii i>h« v\<?<*iH«3u of two *' dwm
to I \\\i& afraid for a ijmo thill a wr had no rhai.r*. It h?ay tar A
enmb.om.tn-, it fright. la* made umoMsi me iflrim>ht In ltd I \vh»T .Ijpfn))* .l4u&*> who
ou hot luckily the iohtfg'^tlKg ‘"inis*/' ,‘jeeOrdoig to Urn wmob Jo w at
arrived. the cabin. The mlurmtijr Iririihr.i' uimy
The cabin was sewenieeu feet deny u viymmnyly, but Urn ennuin^ of
square. .so wluK with the vriOrn Uriceu by thfc#Uultehi ample resriinonv for eunvie-
th*?. hunks. ho:<; slowy our provander and tion. The hu filer .is hrd Jo the tonum
ihuifia^r, the hddiy of the house was some- tree. All the nun*, cHuk included, pour
wind crowded Tlmre w»hv three Amer- out of thf* cabin. find line no The
ieuns aiui ri vo KrCnehnuun The .jifovb . ■* miss* v / is mpmed to assume, a wry
-Wa> pt tb'e most cx< halite kind, ii&ver sat- undi^uWmd posture, w hm> ail hhe.tmm bom
isMed to do H* in^ir dory, hot threatening . u bank at hon with n frozen m«Kv;u.ii H
a h. downs!, wo.it e\ or* iVvsh .siiok of wood, k Hale. fab, 1>ut- l he how Ik of lahyMei;
We Vtiu<U% what V\o culled ‘t-;.Onu>s|»herie; ' idU£'. ibrpfi^h the still forest, tool eryb fim
twktails “ hy oieoiinjLr the door and let- UfiforunmU; -porisman feels tied he has
fine in One pari of 20° below *erO air 10 a rimed for las deed,
two parts of Ud ' alow xmo ;w\ seasoned IMri layette killed o you my ourlbnn,
with French hitters, ft had the usual ef- w/ieh Vtws brought; into wubp for our oh-
feet of all eoekUiri. we shouuf mueii seryafiom It was of a .m'loe difFoerb
have preferred the *’ straight g-ooi'ln *' at.- from wind we Iiad evie-ehei, ria.rker fjn
mv. ro the bark, bku'km* on ! i><' (euzy.le, aud morn
l»i the miu’urn^ we he^ao a weeiFs Uir eolor of U<e tree truoks umoti^ \v(.u li
work at < ;♦ i d><»u hm» viu w. It »:s proper to it li ves. Indeed, we h;>d i| frn/.rp and set
si air ;»i this «nl«M*vn! that tio-s artide x^m u pin flu* i.hnher to he |dhd.«ioj*apln>d »;«of
have no '* i,hiv«l net. " h>.r *nee.!>*b dui not. pointed, ^tundine ihi’iv, if was ahjiusi-
erowo o;n dowtf \Ve srrmred i.he Woods m vi>ihl* iu »ts salnvuess.
?ndtist» jousfy tjhhrnd i pit imha rubiieyv Its feet were (he diiet ^ inierese for w-*
leiitlier itmcred' eihdes. wolh their etcpHi’t had all soen awu cHundned ns tievlvs . If
d t)Ur puis hi^
'- :y>; *m pr*-s>>« b
hnd ; & t i d i n cm*
>aHkl|t>r vtiil is ft
djui thy jcaflBwii
h*M- - I,.*;! -Ulk tt*
Uie $m>\v hs fai’
ns *,mr. hii> snow :
yhdf-s : hid ■'oreii ■
wjieh It rtaiK.
wluyh ii hs aide
to do m lo*ir feet
Oj With file
sjierd of a v<m!
dtTr :ou drv
ortyind In ihese
paV ts li fe it’.'irUnni
has no enemy
hot man Um
Wi>Jf upd ,
pahtKy r: <i<> ‘ pi.i
ii ye hern.! hf ineh
the ,‘lyiyx dot%
Tap s^m;r?t-TSxTv^K oft; roha kjsp.t of
CAR! BClU TRAl'Jv.
hot J <m.vi](| not k<m> that hr aU.uak> the ' lliai >'n«av shoei.ajr. ;.s u Inmier
v ’.lo Jhv it VrhoU. 6n ilia h( »i\ trank, has
J’ram Mr. 1 was th^ siViVlf^ 1*1 i oi) sj > ~i<\ tl i e' ■ \: eltih sihw-
left t>**» rac.6.*«ti w&ya sitiunhir- $W‘ i m», v ws vailed. i n;J i nMiuir "
Sl" ;» n.ilou ht*;<i I y l> ilo»-s to ' ‘ {uhi -! hf nn*-i» a)’
at l\r- Uu-> a Oroaatts ?■■->?- sportsmen the ':•' hush ha 'A Ak'rt bmud: aval
H > - iiit*!. Hi the the y*iXV he i<j iVo't sll-'iS. .'M*M th-y nnj;A £Uhi •hevnlhr-
rvj:;:i:j--h H \ • J | ? 1 h • ( j U • - h * i .**• **hs • and T>a-S at
dy iiwi fmm inml*- aiwiuti fttyds; Jiut tq (fowl sptvd a Jui fsailWA* vikmar- through,
kh] a i thi'i,»i in Ihv ] the most i!»*n:.e s^na-- awd * sm-er.-n'k
t km* .Hi ri mV| w totv.r & finked a iiwk*>iU mrVn^n the ktr/ittfin [TY\W
I f . It linr fi.i iii*» deufhU; *i dhifss nf ll/d ■ ; tkep vti.v.iu** uy Mi*- snar!!
Wthk.r fnn-sf Hint the MUf-v shueoi" Uilli- hu*b*>; htiX 0n?i it v
vidAes vihn'h hr.soi rViMi the nUVil /*h/\ nr ut»j u m&iij airn’er *;< -e
> ;i, »•. . Main I v M«h» wuh hu a I. iKa^:-. 'ir
Tin* hriitg^ tO my iunn\ tiie ohnot vatiou ' )m • riiirh i^uuni U i m\ ilovVu .> ;o,
HAKPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
avalanche of snowy which guilds like man Land te fumbled the snow with his
i bunder m .the tfutel. bare hand, In. lifted toward us $Ju-
I whs brought in ;t v fresh track frozen 3poor^;ot»d, eliwfhl old *o«d. :••
of tbrec: i*M **n>ou by two .gjpdti* .and hiking ryes were t|»owe of a ponlhcr wv
t iff* trail, \yr found them *>•:•* a burned, but- sat our sliwa ever feo earn I’m My..- j>n^
t ft* veiling rapaiiy. #(i ‘hot p WuK the .them down shmiv and sink n.g mu
trail Thai { *c!/a *,M»ckj0‘^ froiu n»y ’ Weight <*-;.! m » v lost the fuo|f%Jp p
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foiJM is f snovv . making1 the snow shn^ ~unk 'Hiowjy Mrtfpf’ iuy — the
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ddtb'nll; and nUigumg !.o Vho utjnrpd4 m? . suppressed chit ion of llif second krbnv
ndm dftee mile we wound along after “Go to curnpijie mwf*td way LmynkvT
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drink. our little territory.' We *ialkr<( ;i»ul
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v iAunl. lit? liiiln bm* ; y&(.; into the ftfc Of SJ&iehiw >o i.ito-i.
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i i«S Ijn nn.w h stun- oo',\.
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f r
THE WHITE HERON.
73
It is in some shadowy vale in the dream-
land of sleep that Love oftenest whispers
his first word. There, night after night,
under the star of dreams, Mary put her
hand into the hand of Angus, whom in
the shy silences of her waking hours se-
cretly she loved; and there, often and
long, Angus looked into the eyes of Mary
of the Tarns.
Then the day came when a silver trum-
pet was blown from a high tower, and
banners and the noise of an army filled
the air, and the stars leaped, and a new
sun and a new moon flamed in the sky.
Ah, sweet hyperboles of love, how wild
as any falling star! And yet, how sweet
the dear hyperboles of truth! — for is not
the awakening of the triumphant passion
of love great and moving as a marching
arm}' with banners, as abruptly clamant
as the blast of a silver trumpet blown
suddenly from over the bastions of the
towers of silence?
It was in summer, when there is no
night among these Northern isles. The
long hot days waned through a sustained
after-glow of rose and violet, and when
the stars came it was only to reveal purple
depths within depths.
Mary was walking, barefoot, through
the dewy grass, on the long western slope
of Innisron, and looking idly at the phan-
tom flake of the moon as it hung like a
blown moth above the vast disclosure of
the flower of sunset. Below it, beyond
her, the ocean. It was pale, opalescent;
here shimmering with the hues of the
moon bow, here dusked with violet shad-
ow, but for the most part pale, opales-
cent. There was no wind, but a breath
arose from the in numerous lips of the
sea. The cool sigh moved inland, and
made a continual faint tremor amid the
salt grasses. The skuas and guillemots
stirred, and at long intervals stridently
screamed.
Mary looked long seaward. The illim-
itable, pale, unlifted wave; the hinted
dusk of the quiet underwaters; the un-
fathomable violet gulfs overhead: these
silent comrades were not alien to her.
To them she was a moving shadow on an
isle: to her they were the veils of wonder
beyond which the soul knows no death,
but looks upon the face of Beauty, and
upon the eyes of Love, and upon the
heart of Peace.
Amid these silent spaces two dark ob-
jects caught the girls wandering gaze.
Flying eastward, a solan trailed a dusky
wing across the sky. So high its flight
that the first glance saw it as though
motionless; yet, even while Mary looked,
the skyey wayfarer waned suddenly, and
that which had been was not. The
other object had wings too, but was not
a bird. A fishing -smack lay idly be-
calmed, her red-brown sail now a patch
of warm dusk. Mary knew what boat it
was — the Nighean Donn, out of Fionna-
phort in Ithona, the westernmost of the
Iarraidh Isles.
There was no one visible on board the
Nighean Donn, but a boy’s voice sang a
monotonous Gaelic cadence, indescriba-
bly sweet as it came, remote and wild as
an air out of a dim forgot ten world, across
the still waters. Mary Macleod knew the
song, a strange iorram or boat song made
by Pol the Freckled, and by him given to
his friend Angus Macleod of Ithona. She
muttered the words over and over, as the
lilt of the boyish voice rose and fell :
“It is not only when the sea is dark ami chill and
desolate
I hear the singing of the queen who lives
beneath the ocean :
Oft have I heard her chanting voice when noon
o’erfloods his golden gate,
Or when the moonshine tills the wave with
snow-white mazy motion.
M And gome day will it hap to me, when the black
waves are leaping,
Or when within the breathless green I see
her shell-strewn door,
That singing voice will lure me where my sea-
drown'd love lies sleeping
Beneath the slow' white hands of her who
rules the sunken shore.
“For in my heart I hear the bells that ring their
fatal beauty,
The wild, remote, uncertain bells that chant
their lonely sorrow :
The lonely bells of sorrow, the bells of fatal
beauty,
Oft in my heart I bear the bells, who soon
shall know no morrow.”
The slow splashing of oars in the great
hollow cavern underneath her feet sent a
flush to her face. She knew who was
there — that it was the little boat of the
Nighean Donn , and that Angus Macleod
was in it.
She stood among the seeding grasses,
intent. The cluster of white moon-daisies
that reached to her knees was not more
pale than her white face: for a white
silence was upon Mary Macleod in her
dreaming girlhood, as in her later years.
She shivered once as she listened to
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE WHITE HERON.
75
Angus singing', while he secured his boat,
and began to climb from ledge to ledge.
He too had heard the lad Uille Ban chant-
ing as he lay idly upon a coil of rope,
while the smack lay derelict on the un-
nioving waters; and hearing, had himself
taken up the song:
*• Fur in my heart I hear the belle that ring their
fatal beauty.
The wild, remote, uncertain bells that chant their
lonely sorrow .*
Tlte lonely bell s of sorrow , the bells of fatal beauty ,
Oft in my heart I hear the bells , who soon
shall know no morrow ”
Mary shivered with the vague fear that
had coine upon her. Had she not dreamed,
in the bygone night, that she heard some
one in the sea singing that very song —
some one with slow white hands which
waved idly above a dead man? A mo-
ment ago she had listened to the same
song sung by the lad Uille Ban; and now,
for the third time, she heard Angus idly
chanting it as he rose invisibly from ledge
to ledge of the cavern underneath her.
Three idle songs; yet is not death but
the final, the interrupted, refrain of an
idle song?
When Angus leaped on to the slope
and came towards her, she felt her pulse
quicken. Tall and fair, he looked fairer
and taller than she had ever seen him.
The light that was still in the west linger-
ed in his hair, which, yellow as it was,
now glistered as with the sheen of bronze.
He had left his cap in the boat, and as he
crossed swiftly towards her she realized
anew that he deserved the name given
him by Pol the poet — Angus Ogue Grua-
gacb — the yellow-haired god» They had
never yet spoken of their love, and now
both realized in a flash that no words
were needed. At midsummer noon no
one says the sun shines.
Angus came forward with outreach ing
hands. “ Dear, dear love !” he whispered.
“Mhairi mo run, muirnean, mocbree!”
She put her hands in his; she put her
lips to his; she put her head to his breast,
and listened, all her life throbbing in re-
sponse, to the leaping pulse of the heart
that loved her.
“ Dear, dear love !” he whispered again.
'‘Angus!’* she murmured.
They said no more, but moved slowly
onward, hand in hand.
The night had their secret. For sure,
it was in the low crooning of the deep
when the tide put its whispering lips
Vol. XCVIII.— No. 563.-8
against the sleeping sea; it was in the
spellbound silences of the isle; it was in
the phantasmal light of the stars — the
stars of dream, in a sky of dream, in a
world of dream. When, an hour — or was
it an eternity, or a minute?— later, they
turned, she to her home near the clachan
of Innisron, he to his boat, a light air had
come up on the forehead of the tide. The
sail of the Nighean Donn flapped, a dusky
wing in the darkness. The penetrating
smell of sea-mist was in the air.
Mary had only one regret as she
turned her face inland, when once the in-
visibly gathering mist hid from her even
the blurred semblance of the smack: that
she had not asked Angus to sing no more
that song of Pol the Freckled, which
vaguely she feared, and even hated. She
had stood listening to the splashing of
the oars, and, later, to the voices of Angus
and Uille Ban; and now, coming faintly
and to her weirdly through the gloom,
she heard her lover’s voice chanting the
words again. What made him sing that
song, in that hour, on this day of all days?
41 For in my heart 1 hear the bells that ring their
fatal beauty.
The wild , remote , uncertain bells that chant their
lonely sorrow :
The lonely bells of sorrow , the bells of fatal beauty ,
Oft in my heart I hear the bells , who soon
shall know no morrow
But long before she was back at the
peat fire again she forgot that sad, haunt-
ing cadence, and remembered only his
words — the dear words of him whom she
loved, as he came towards her, across the
dewy grass, with outreacliing hands:
“Dear, dear love!. . . mhairi mo run,
muirnean, mochree !”
She saw them in the leaping shadows
in the little room; in the red glow that
flickered along the fringes of the peats ; in
the darkness which like a sea drowned
the lonely croft. She heard them in the
bubble of the meal, as slowly with wood-
en spurtle she stirred the porridge; she
heard them in the rising wind that had
come in with the tide; she heard them in
the long relinquishing rush and multitu-
dinously gathering inroar as the hands
of the Atlantic tore at the shingly beaches
of Innisron Haven.
After the smooring of the peats, and
when the two old people, the father of
her father and his white-haired wife,
were asleep, she sat for a long time in the
warm darkness. From a cranny in the
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7(5
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
peat ash a smouldering flame looked out
comfortingly. In the girl’s heart a great
peace was come, as well as a great joy.
She had dwelled so long with silence that
she knew its eloquent secrets: and it was
sweet to sit there in the dusk, and listen*
and commune with silence, and dream.
Above the long, deliberate roar and re*
surge of the tidal waters round the piled
beaches she could hear a dull, rhythmic
beat. It was the screw of some great
steamer, churning its way through the
darkness: a stranger, surely, for she knew
the times and seasons of every vessel that
came near these lonely isles. Sometimes
it happened that the Uist or Tiree steam-
ers passed that way ; doubtless it was the
Tiree boat, or possibly the big steamer
that once or twice in the summer fared
northward to far-off St. Kilda.
She must have slept, and the sound
have passed into her ears as an echo into
a shell; for when, with a start, she arose,
she still heard the thud-thud of the screw,
although the boat had long passed away.
It was the cry of a sea-bird which had
startled her. Once — twice — the scream
had whirled about the house. Mary lis-
tened, intent. Once more it came, and at
the same moment she saw a drift of white
press up against the window.
She sprang to her feet, startled.
“ It is the cry of a heron,” she muttered,
with dry lips; “but who has heard tell
of a white heron? — and the bird there is
white as a snow wreath.”
Some uncontrollable impulse made her
hesitate. She moved to go to the win-
dow, to see if the bird were wounded,
but she could not. Sobbing with inex-
plicable fear, she turned and fled, and a
moment later was in her own little room.
There all her fear passed. Yet she could
not sleep for long. If only she could get
the sound of that beating screw out of her
ears, she thought. But she could not,
neither waking nor sleeping; nor the fol-
lowing day; nor any day thereafter; and
when she died, doubtless she heard the
thud-thud of a screw as it churned the
dark waters in a night of shrouding mist.
For on the morrow she learned that
the Nighean Donn had been run down
in the mist, a mile south of Ithona, by an
unknown steamer. She came out of the
darkness, ruining; she passed into the
darkness again, leaving ruin behind. Per-
haps the officer in command thought that
his vessel had run into some floating
wreckage ; for there was no cry heard, and
no lights had been seen. Only one body
was found— that of the boy Uille Ban.
When heart-breaking sorrow comes,
there is no room for words. Mary Mac-
leod said little; what, indeed, was there
to say? The clansfolk gave what kindly
comfort they could. The old minister,
when next he came to Innisron, spoke of
the will of God and the Life Eternal.
Mary bowed her head. What had been ,
was not: could any words, could any
solace, better that?
44 You are young, Mary,” said Mr. Mac-
donald, when he had prayed with her.
“God will not leave you desolate.”
She turned her white face, with her
great, brooding, dusky eyes, upon him.
44 Will He give me back Angus?” she
said, in her low still voice, that had the
hush in it of lonely places.
He could not tell her so.
“It was to be,” she said, breaking the
long silence that had fallen between them.
“Ay,” the minister answered.
She looked at him, and then took his
hand. “I am thanking you, Mr. Mac-
douald, for the good words you have put
upon my sorrow. But I am not wishing
that any more be said to me. I must go
now, for I have to see to the milking,
an’ I hear the poor beasts lowing on the
hill-side. The old folk too are weary, and
I must be getting them their porridge.”
After that no one ever heard Mary Mac-
leod speak of Angus. She was a good
lass, all agreed, and made no moan; and
there was no croft tidier than Scaur-a-
van, and because of her it was; and she
made butter better than any on Innisron ;
and in the isles there was no cheese like
the Scaur-a-van cheese.
Had there been any kith or kin of An-
gus, she would have made them hers. She
took the consumptive mother of Uille Ban
from Ithona, and kept her safe-liavened
at Scaur-a-van, till the woman sat up one
night in her bed, and cried in a loud
voice that Uille Ban was standing by her
side and playing a wild air on the strings
of her heart, which he had in his hands,
and the strings were breaking, she cried.
They broke, and Mary envied her, and the
whispering joy she would be having with
Uille Ban. But Angus had no near kin.
Perhaps, she thought, he would miss her
the more where he had gone. He had a
friend, whom she had never seen. He was
a man of Iona, and was named Eachain
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE WHITE HERON.
77
MacEachain Maclean. He and Angus
had been boys in the same boat, and sailed
tli rice to Iceland together, and once to
Peterhead, that maybe was as far or far-
ther, or perhaps among the stranger-folk
further east. Mary knew little geogra-
phy, though she could steer by the stars.
To this friend she wrote, through the min-
ister, to say that if ever he was in trouble
he was to come to her.
It was on the third night after the
sinking of the Nighean Donn that Mary
walked alone, beyond the shingle beaches,
and where the ledges of trap run darkly
into deep water. It was a still night and
clear. The lambs and ewes were restless
in the moonshine, for their bleating filled
the upper solitudes. A shoal of mackerel
made a sputtering, splashing sound be-
yond the skerries outside the haven. The
ebb, sucking at the weedy extremes of
the ledges, caused a continuous bubbling
sound. There was no stir of air, only a
breath upon the sea; but, immeasurably
remote overhead, frayed clouds, like trail*
ed nets in yellow gulfs of moonlight, shot
flame- shaped points into the dark, and
seemed to lick the stars as these shook in
the wind. “No mist to-night,” Mary
muttered ; then, startled by her own
words, repeated, and again repeated,
“There will be no mist to-night.”
Then she stood as though become stone.
Before her, on a solitary rock, a great
bird sat. It was a heron. In the moon-
shine its plumage glistened white as foam
of the sea ; white as one of her lambs it was.
She had never seen, never heard of, a
white heron. There was some old Gaelic
song — what was it ?— no, she could not
remember — something about the souls of
the dead. The words would not come.
Slowly she advanced. The heron did
not stir. Suddenly she fell upon her
kuees, and reached out her arms, and her
liair fell about her shoulders, and her
heart beat against her throat, and the
grave, gave up its sorrow, and she cried:
“ Oh, Angus, Angus, my beloved ! An-
gus, Angus, my dear, dear love!”
She heard nothing, saw nothing, felt
nothing, knew nothing, till, numbed and
weak, she stirred with a cry, for some
creeping thing of the sea had crossed her
hand. She rose and stared about her.
There was nothing that she need fear.
The moon rays danced on a glimmering
sea-pasture far out upon the water; their
lances and javelins flashed aod glinted
merrily. A dog barked as she crossed
the flag-stones at Scaur-a-van, then sud-
denly began a strange furtive baying.
She called : “ Luath 1 Luath !”
The dog was silent a moment, then
threw its head back and howled, abrupt-
ly breaking again into a sustained bay-
ing. The echo swept from croft to croft,
and wakened every dog upon the isle.
Mary looked back. Slowly circling be-
hind her she saw the white heron. With
a cry, she fled into the house.
For three nights thereafter she saw the
white heron. On the third she had no
fear. She followed the foam-white bird,
and when she could not see it, then she
followed its wild plaintive cry. At dawn
she was still at Ardfeulan, on the western
side of Innisron; but her arms were
round the drowned heart whose pulse
she had heard leap so swift in joy, and
her lips put a vain warmth against the
dear face that was wTan as spent foam,
and as chill as that.
Three years after that day Mary saw
again the white heron. She was alone
now, and she was glad, for she thought
Angus had come, and she was ready.
Yet neither death nor sorrow happened.
Thrice, night after night, she saw the
white gleam of nocturnal wings, heard
the strange bewildering cry.
It was on the fourth day, when a fierce
gale covered the isle with a mist of driv-
ing spray. No Innisron boat was outside
the haven ; for that, all were glad. But
in the late afternoon a cry went from
mouth to mouth.
There was a fishing-coble on the sker-
ries! That meant death for all on board,
for sure, for nothing could be done. The
moment came soon. A vast drowning
billow leaped forward, and when the
cloud of spray had scattered, there was
no coble to be seen. Only one man was
washed ashore, nigh dead, upon the spar
he clung to. His name was Eachain
MacEachain, son of a Maclean of Iona.
And that was how Mary Macleod met
the friend of Angus, and he a ruined
man, and how she put her life to his, and
they were made one.
Her man .... yes, he was her man, to
whom she was loyal and true, and whom
she loved right well for many years. But
she knew, and he too knew' well, that she
had wedded one man in her heart, and
that no other could take his place there,
then or forever. She had one husband
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78
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
onlyf^ but it was not lie to whom she was
wed, but Angus the son of Alasdair— him
whom she loved with the deep love that
surpasseth all wisdom of the world that
ever was, or is, or shall be.
And Eachain her man lived out his
years with her, and was content, though
he knew tirell that in her silent heart his
wife, who loved him well, had only one
lover, one dream, one hope, one passion,
one remembrance, one husband. For
the women who love out of the depths of
life may love many deeply and truly, but
below all, through all, above all, is the
one love. For there is but one love, and
that is the love which passeth knowledge,
and goeth down into hell or into the
depths of heaven, and is crowned, and is
immortal, with a deathless star above it
for evermore.
And if Mary Maclean knew this, so
also did Angus, where he waited afar.
They lie who say that love perisheth.
God give us flame to endure!
THE GIRL AND THE GAME.
A FOOTBALL STORY.
BY JESSE LYNCH WILLIAMS.
rpHE rest of the team are down in the
A banquet-room. The dinner is over,
and they are singing now ; I can hear
them away up here, and I am all alone in
a hotel bedroom, stretched out on a sofa,
away from everybody, and that is where
I ought to be. My right foot is in a
bandage, and I’m glad of it. Sometimes
it throbs like the dickens. Let it throb.
It was near the beginning of the second
half, while the score was still 0 to 0, that
this play happened — not the other play
(I’ll tell you about that later), but the one
that really caused the other. The score
was still nothing to nothing, and we were
still sticking to the kicking game. And
they were trying mass-on -tackle and
guards-back plays, and the ball still staid
in the middle of the field, and all of you
thousands of people were staring at us, I
suppose, though we didn’t know nor care
about that. Then this play was made.
They had the ball. “Twenty-nine — sev-
enteen— forty-five,” yelled their captain.
Now something inside of me said that
that signal meant a kick. u Here’s where
I block it,” I said to myself, gritting my
teeth; and the instant the ball was put
in play — bang — I went through my man,
yelling as I did so to the rest of the team,
“ It’s a kick, fellows!”
He is a lighter guard than I, and I went
at him with all my might ; but, great Scott !
I didn’t expect him to fall back that way ;
but he didn't fall, he jumped back, just as
I came at him, and pulled me with him,
and I was the one that did the falling. I
had misunderstood the signal. Instead
of a kick, it was — You know what hap-
pened. It was a hole big enough to drive
one of the yelling four-in-hands through!
But it wasn’t made by their system; it
was my foolishness. At any rate, straight
through the opening shot their interfer-
ence in beautiful compact form, while I
was sprawled out on the grass like a
wooden man, and by the time I was on my
feet again they had got past our entire
line (my yelling “kick” had helped the
cause), and there I saw the man with the
ball scudding diagonally across the field
with only two of our backs between him
and the line — well, I needn’t tell you how
they each missed him; nor how the field
looked when the subs came running up
the side lines shrieking, “Touch-down! —
a touch-down!” waving blankets and
sweaters in the air. (Oh Lord !)
I saw and heard and felt all this, and
it was my fault, and I knew it; and up
there some place in the crowded grand
stand, sitting in the same section with
some of you, she saw it all, too, and she
understands football better than you do.
And she knew it was all my fault ! And I
knew she knew it. So I turned my back
on the grand stand and kicked myself,
and swore I would redeem that mistake.
Jack, the trainer, is right — football men
have no business thinking about girls; it
makes them worry, and then they get off
condition. I went into the game in good
enough condition, but I knew she was
there, and was looking critically at me.
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
70
Tim GIRL A:\rD THE DAME
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HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE,
with their score six to our no
thing; so, with a sort of wild
yell— whiz! hang! —I lore my
way through the line (they
didn't even seern to try to stop
me), and— sure enough I was
right this time— there was their
quarter socking back the hall.
I heard him grunt Boyle tried
to block me; T brushed him
over. The full back was now
catching the ball. He drew
back his foot to kick; high up
iu the air I jumped in front of
him. I heard a double “thump,
thump f* I felt the ball bounce
off my chest; saw it bounding
and rolling innocently off to
the right, ten yards away, all
alone, with nobody between it
and the good goal posts. J
swerved toward it
on the next
bound t would scoop it up; I
thought of And ; it hounded crook-
ed. (Why t) I grabbed at it,
juggled it, dropped it. dropped on
it. Then they began dropping on
irie, and for the first time that
day I heard the roaring of the many
thousands around the field. My
chance was over!
When the pyramid untangled itself and
got oil , I did not get up, you'll remember.
Thai was because a tendon in my right
ankle was smashed. If it had only been
'iff a sprained ankle, as these evening papers
sa v, why — At any rate. 1 was carried off
so close beside HER on the oRAND stand ” the field. I am a Senior. There are no
more games in my college course. That
was the ending to my football career. I
opposite me Did you notice that? Then, blubbered,
you know, Cap tried the other side, and
then— we lost the hall on downs ! For The rest of the minutes were over after
Heaven's sake! what made us do that? a while. . . . Well, anyway, they didn't
Now came the play that I started 10 tell score again.
you about. After it was all over, and the coaches
It was their ball on their tbirtv-yard began driving out, with the horns blow-
line, first down. I was nearly crazy at mg and the flags waving and the thou-
our losing the ball, aiul we lmd only a few sands cheering, those of our team that
minutes’ play left. And just here came could, walked over to the dressing room,
my chance. while past us rushed a mob of subs and
Their captain gave the signal, and their coach ers from the other college, carrying
full back dropped back as if for a kick; on their shoulders the Oil mi' team, who
and V Look out for a fake thick !n sudden- looked happy — oh, hut they looked hap-
ly called Shorty, our quarter, to all of us. py !
Now though there wasn't time to say I was carried off the held too. but not
so. I felt sure they weren't going to try on anybody’s shoulders. A couple of
any fake kicks on the thirty-yard line, rubbers carried me between them. I
THE GIRL AND THE GAME.
81
didn't look over towards the grand stand.
I didn't care to. . . .Oh, well, it's all in a
lifetime!
You probably don't know what it was
like in the dressing-room after the game.
We all got rubbed down for the last time.
Nobody said much except one of the coach-
ers. Most of us smoked. Shorty stood
on a stool, naked, getting rubbed down,
and puffing on his first cigarette since
August. A couple of tears dropped down
from his cheeks on to the wrist of the rub-
ber. Maybe you think it's funny; but we
didn’t. It was all so different from the
way we thought we were going to break
training.
“Cap, we'll do ’em next year," said the
head coach.
Caponlysniffled,and — But nevermind
all this. It's all over now, and the fel-
lows downstairs are cheering themselves
up witli songs and things, and cursing me
betweentimes, I suppose. And I’m all
alone in my room, with my right ankle
bound up, and sometimes it throbs like
the dickens, and I’m glad of it.
Jack, the trainer, was with me for a
while, but he went down to the dinner
again. He said I could come, but I
wouldn't. I deserve to be left alone. I
lost the game for the college, and I’m a
big awkward kid, and — But I haven’t
been alone all the time! Did you think I
had? Listen.
I think I was groaning to myself. I
didn't miud the pain much, but it feels
better to make a noise. I’ll bet you do
too, when you are alone. At any rate,
the door was open, and I heard some one
say (it’s a smooth voice), “Does it hurt
very much?"
I looked around. There she was, stand-
ing in the middle of the hall, just outside
my room. I looked away again. “I’m
sorry I disturbed you," I said.
She didn't seem to hear that. “ Doesn’t
it hurt awfully?" she said, twitching
her shoulders and pinching her left hand
with her right; for I had looked round
again.
I watched her a minute. Then I said,
“I don’t want your pity." That was a
lie.
“But it does," she said. “I am so
sorry." She came nearer. “Oh, don't
get up; you mustn’t,"- she said, backing
off down the hall. “I was — was just
passing by, and — Don’t try to get up,
please! Oh, Billy, what have you done?"
What I had tried to do was to stand on
one foot, but it wouldn’t work. I lost my
balance, and like a fool stuck out the
other foot. I would have gone over if I
hadn’t caught hold of the table. I hung
there, gripping the table, the sweat break-
ing out on my face, aud my hair sticking
in my eyes. (I hadn’t had my hair cut
yet, like some of the fellows.)
“You’d better run along before any-
body sees you," I said, trying to lift my-
self up.
“ Billy, don’t you move! Do you hear
me? Stop it! I say stop it!" And the
next thing I knew she had hold of my
arm up near the shoulder (I don't believe
both hands reached around), arid she was
saying, “Now, then, slowly; lean on me,
Billy; I’m strong — once you told me so
yourself. Now — am I hurting you? Come
down easy. There, now."
“Thank you," I think I said. “Now
you had better go."
I suppose she ought really to have gone,
oughtn’t she? Well, be shocked, all you
nice little New York people. Be just as
shocked as you please. I don't care. She
wasn’t thinking about you just now; she
had other things to do. She smoothed the
pillow, then pulled the sweater down from
my chin, so it wouldn't scratch, and dipped
her hand into the pitcher of ice-water aud
touched my forehead with it — twice, I
think.
“Now I must go," she said, energeti-
cally.
“ But, Ann — ’’ I began.
“ Good-by," she said. “ Would you like
some of these?"
“These" meant the flowers she was
taking from her belt. I looked at them.
They were the flowers I had sent. It was
after the game now, and we didn’t beat.
Just think of that a minute.
“ Will you have some of them?" she re-
peated, “’cause it's sort of dreary in this
room, I should think. Are you better?"
But I wasn't looking at the flowers
now.
“ Ann," I said, “ don’t go just yet."
“Oh, but I must." She started for the
door.
"“No, you mustn’t,’ I said.
“I’ll bring Aunt Sue to nurse you."
“ But I don't want Aunt Sue."
She had reached the door. I groaned.
And she came hack, running.
“Ah, Billy, is it very bad?" She was
at my side.
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Digitized by
Go igle
[
ANN. I SAID, ‘i AM AWKWARD AND Ol'KRGROWN
“ Ann," I said, U*I am awkward and
overgrown — n
plie would n’t look at me, but shook her
head.
“ And ignorant, and hare the big
head M
81ie kept on shaking her head.
“ And we would have won to-day if it
hadn't been for me, and—’’
“ Keep still,'' she said : M if they had all
played as well as you, we would have won
by ten points.1'
Ann said that* and she knows football.
But I only asked,
** Who do you say would have wouf1
' * We — you — we. " Then she turned her
bark on me and started for the door.
Again l groaned- She came hack
again.
“Oh^wh&t is the matter. Billy f She
came nearer tu me.
Do you know what I said
44 Arm," I said, ** I love you,”
did, right out that way.
1,4 Oh, Billy, do you still V' She seemed
glad about it. 4 * Are you sure you do?
Let me go !'1
But I didn't just then. She's such a
little bit of a thing.
“But, Ann," I called, as she was leav-
ing the room, “ wouldn't it have been aw-
ful if we had won the— the game to* day?"
Ann turned at the door and looked at
me. ‘‘ You're very unpatriotic," she said.
then \
Yes, I
Tile rest of the team are singing down
iti the banquet room, and I ain up herein
a dreary hotel room, • stretched out on a
sofa, with my right foot in a bandage, and
Tin glad of it Sometimes it throbs like
the dickens. Let it** — Oh. come in.
Origi-ral from
UNiV:ER:Sirf:OF MiCHIGAW
THE SPAN O’ LIFE.*
BY WILLIAM McLKNNAN AND J. X. MelLWRAlTH.
PART III.
MARGARET’S STORY.
“The heart lcadcth whithersoever it goeth.” — Old Proverb.
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE BAIE DES CHALEUHS.
VJEVER, never shall I forget the elation
11 which filled my heart as I stepped
ashore with Lucy that September day in
the Baie des Chaleurs in Canada. After
weeks of unrest my feet once more were
on the sure, unchanging earth, in the land
that held what was more than all else to
me, “ my dear and only love,” my Hugh.
As we strolled along the clear, hard
sands beyond the sound of the men toil-
ing at the water-casks, I felt tempted to
cry: “Lucy, Lucy, can you not see my
happiness ? I am no Madame de St.
Just, but Margaret Nairn, the happiest
woman in all the world, because my feet
press the same ground that bears my
love.” This, poor Lucy, with her cramp-
ed Methodistical ways, would have held
savored only of lightness, or worse; she
could never understand the longing that
had worn at my heart all these years,
and, most of all, she could never conceive
of a love such as that of my Hugh.
Crowning all my joy came back the
words of his dear, dear song,
The span o* Life's nae lang enough,
Nor deep eneugh the sea,
Xor braid eneugh this weary warld
To part my Love frae me.
No, nothing should part us now. Pov-
erty and pride had kept him silent when
my heart was yearning for him, but now
poverty" did not exist, for I was here to
make him restitution, and the pride was
all mine now in claiming a love that
belonged to me alone. Love was King,
and
“The King shall have his own
Once more!
The King shall have his own !”
I sang, mimicking his manly tone as best
I might, to the great astonishment of
Lucy.
Delighted as we were merely to feel the
sands beneath our feet, the soft, fresh
green of the forest which edged them
close attracted us, and we timidly made
our way under the first scattered trees.
Then seeing no wild animals, of which
we were greatly in dread, and hearing
the reassuring voices of the seamen, we
ventured in far enough to gain the thick,
sweet -smelling carpet of pine needles,
and at length seated ourselves by a little
stream, but near enough the sands to see
the waters of the bay glinting between
the trees.
“Oh, Lucy, Lucyr, I am so happy !” I
said, in the fulness of my heart, giving
her my hand, for I looked on her more as
a companion than a waiting- woman ; but
before she could reply a band was clapped
over my mouth, and I saw Lucy strug-
gling in the arms of a savage. An over-
whelming terror crushed all life and sense
out of me, and I swooned away.
When I recovered I found I was being
carried swiftly by two savages, one at my
shoulders and another at my feet, but my
terror was so great upon me that I dared
not make a sound. How long or how far
we went I could not even conjecture. I
saw the trees passing before my upturned
eyes as in some horrid dream, but it was
not until I began to catch glimpses of the
sky through the thinning branches, and
my captors halted in an open space, set-
ting me on my feet, that my senses came
back in some degree.
We were beside the water again, dark
and empty. The Indians immediately
brought forth three of their light canoes,
which they had cunningly concealed
amongst the bushes, and laid them gently
on the stream. No one molested me, nor,
indeed, paid me any special attention as I
sat and watched them.
The pictures in such works as La Hon -
tain and others I had seen were unreal,
and I could not recognize their models in
the men about me. They were painted,
• Be^un in October number, ISOS.
Digitized by
Gck igle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
TitK\ Juirmi their. oA-xqks uv’to tws water.
it i$ true, but in. a manner more gro- sereuity. for it was morn than composure
u^ouu than itflVighting; their h&ir was £$:*)' absoUHe faith ami trust tVfct'we-yvm
black unci lanky, pi Artemi close to their lit the Jmed of God -of Gur Heavenly
he.ad8; wiih lidt ono or two Jon# pia ded . • v- as 4te uiw&y$
brakes, escaping, orourmuL’d with heads, plote 1 hat I leaned upon her slreheth m\d
l^bohly clotlibjg consisted of leather w;is comforted.
leegin^.s more or knss tattered. and five All was now ready for tire erribuyluv
belts for their weapons, which crossed ; tion, but. to <>m dismay, wy Were directed
iWir naked bodk^/: $&fch to dilfereut ennoeH. Xo
•yr?>h soft jooiMA;Mns neatly ornooemhu indeed, my capior; who appeared to he
and T could not but ^dutirov-tl^' vnm ant! • the irndow or chief, for be $ nr *o?m*w bat
ability, of tiudr inovem^Hls. KiwmyGy,. move of rlnbr tawdry finery tbari ihcbdth-
cnwglu I \vu>- dmjof.^cv po$se5.sed of mv a fid hi* face was decorated by ■& hvo>4ft
hfrimuMcmns. fHV only anxiety being for baud of white below iiio eyes. Beetoj&d
lAtry* bur I could, not doubt she was in hnvjotik U* add to Any rhurfort, directing
safe ivy as i la? Indians were evidently ex- me bow to dispose of myself in ihe hot
tb*diug lb6 arrival of the rest of the umud bheeauue. lint once, separated J rom
baud. ' Xitiey. f JosGihe conmge. with whk-li she
KejfovO loh# WG 'hpfkrcl &tnutuh of their had li^pired u»e. and l trembled m the
a|«yiv:*Ach, and my poor Lucy appeared. rough guttural voices of the savages, \*!v>v
thy my dear, dear mblivsr . ‘ she tried, talked their ioudesy filUijg iiic vtlji the
" £ iva^ afraid. { should oevor s<*r Mi* greater ap|nelietis»oit ash. hetok^ned they
again * ' uud dm mbbLd ofero row clasped held liuuns^lvcH beyond pur.su it or dis-
nic in heryu-my and lossed n?^ as if i had eovory.
a yAihd. 0rtoe sly : i?Mt Huey, def\v emyr&gemm Sim] that
of my *A.fely% she straight recovered her she was, divined, my fears, and Man bark
THE SPAN O’ LIFE.
85
her message of reassurance to me in one
of her people's hymns, which I learned to
love on board the ship:
Thou very present Aid
In suffering and distress,
The mind whicli still on Tlice is staved
Is kept in perfect peace.
At length, when the clear September
day began to fade, we landed, and Lucy
and I were again together. No one seem-
ed to pay any special regard to us, but
though we had apparent liberty, I felt
sure that any attempt at escape would be
futile; indeed, the black forest about us
held more terrors, to our minds, than even
our captivity.
It was not long before the savages had
kindled a fire and the work of clearing
away the brush and making a camp was
begun. In spite of our fears, we could
not but admire the readiness of those at
work, while the chief, with the principal
warriors, lay about, smoking, and staring
at us with their fixed eyes.
In a little while a fish was broiled on
the hot stones, and a portion of it laid be-
fore us, cleanly enough, on sweet-smelling
bark freshly peeled from one of the great
birch-trees near by. It was flat for the
want of salt, but we were too hungry to
be over-nice, and our spirits revived with
the comfort of our meal. Then, wearied
out, I laid my head on Lucy’s lap and fell
fast asleep.
I was awakened by the sound of voices
raised in discussion, and, to my amaze-
ment, I saw in the light of the fire a man
in the garb of a priest. Instead of a hat
he wore a tight- fitting cap, his soutane
was rusty and patched in many places,
and his feet were shod with moccasins
like the Indians. To my dismay, instead
of the accents which I expected, he was
speaking to the chief in the same guttural
tongue as his own; yet his very gown
was a protection, and I rose and went to
him without hesitation.
“Oh, father! You have been sent in
answer to our prayers. Thank God, we
arc safe !”
He started at the sound of my voice,
and stared at me for what seemed a long
time without a word. “Yes, you are
safe,” he said at length, but iu halting
English ; “ these Indians will do you no
harm. They will carry you to some post
farther south, whence word will be sent
to your friends among the English, and
you will be ransomed. Yes, you are
safe.”
“Oli, mon pere,” I implored, breaking
into French, for I saw that was his
tongue, “do not speak so! You will not
leave us with them! For the sake of the
mother who bore you, listen to me!” and
I threw myself on my knees aud stretch-
ed out my hands to him, but he drew
back as if my touch would have hurt him.
“Do not forsake us; take us with you!
We are women, and are helpless. I do
not desire to reach any English post. I
have no friends amongst the English.
Do not abandon us to these men ; we are
both women, and I am a lady.”
“I see that,” he said, more softly.
“Where do you wish to go?”
“To Louisbourg, mon pere; our ship
was bound there when we were carried
off.”
“Had you any friends on board the
ship?”
“ My woman had her son.”
“ Have you a husband or a brother in
Louisbourg?”
My face flamed scarlet at the unexpect-
ed question, but I answered that I had
not, without further explanation.
“Then you cannot go to Louisbourg.
It is quite impossible,” he declared, with
authority. “Louisbourg is no place for
women at any time, least of all now.
The important matter is to get you free
from these savages, but you may rest
without alarm to-night, and I will decide
what is to be done before morning.”
He spoke these last words wearily, like
a man who had received a hurt, which
moved my heart towards him in quick
pity, and I waited to see if he would speak
again, but he only raised his hand and
blessed me.
Lucy received my report with her usual
quiet; even the tidings that we were not
to go to Louisbourg did not disturb her.
“He knows better than we, and he will
be guided in all his decisions.”
Despite the assurances of our safety, we
neither of us closed our eyes that night.
Apart from the anxiety as to our destina-
tion, the strangeness of our situation, the
crackling of the fire, and the uncanny
noises of the forest kept us at such a ten-
sion that sleep was impossible, and we
were awake before any of our captors
were astir.
I looked eagerly for the priest, and saw
him kneeling at a little distance, absorbed
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in his morning devotions. Thereupon we
withdrew quietly to the river, and soon
returned, greatly refreshed, to find the
whole camp astir, and the priest awaiting
us at the water's edge. Going directly to
him, I asked, “ Mon pere, what have you
decided?”
“That you go with me,” he said, quiet-
ly. And I turned to Lucy, but she had
already caught the joyous message of our
deliverance from my face.
chapter xnr.
LE P&RE JEAN, MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS.
Though the priest spoke with con-
fidence, I judged he had no small diffi-
culty in persuading the savages to part
with us, for there was much discussion
and apparently grumbling on the part of
the chief ; but at length the obstacle, what-
ever it was, was overcome, and the priest
announced we were free to depart.
“My canoe is small for four people,
and would be too heavy when we begin
the ascent of the Matapediac,” he said,
“but I will borrow another from the
savages, with two men to paddle. Ex-
plain to your woman that she is to go
with my servant Andr6 in the one, and
you will follow in the other with me.
She need have no fear; Andre is to be
trusted in all things.”
These matters being settled, we were
made spectators to surely the strangest
sight my eyes had ever looked upon.
Andre brought forth a small folding-
table, and the priest, still in his rusty
soutane, recited the holy office of the
mass to the kneeling savages under the
shade of the great pines, and only the
ripple of the water broke the pauses in
the service. To my astonishment, the
Indians recited the Venite, but this was
the extent of their knowledge, apart from
the Pater-Noster, the Confiteor, and some
of the responses.
When the service was ended we break-
fasted heartily, and as soon as the priest’s
preparations were made we embarked,
with, oh, such different hearts from yes-
terday !
Now that our anxiety was at rest, I had
lime to observe the priest more closely.
Though his figure was slight, it moved to
the dip of his paddle like that of a man
vigorous in all exercise; his long, thin
hands were full of strength ; and his face,
You XCVIII.-No. 563.-10
though worn, and burned to almost as
dark a color as that of an Indian, was
that of a man who must have been hand-
some in his youth. At his age I could
not even guess, beyond that he looked old
with his scanty beard and long white hair,
which fell almost to his shfi&llders. We
sat face to face as he paddled in the stern
of the canoe, and I marvelled at the wild
grandeur of the river and forest, which I
had barely marked before.
“It is beautiful — yes, very beautiful,”
he said presently, noticing my admira-
tion; “ but it wears another face in win-
ter; it is then even terrible.”
“Have you been long amongst these
people, mon pere?”
“So long that I know their tongue like
our own; I know their faults and virtues,
which are also like our own, but more
simple, more direct; so long that some-
times I forget I ever knew anything dif-
ferent. But come, my daughter, I can
tell my story at any time, whilst you can-
not have a better opportunity than the
present to tell me yours, which I must
know if I am to be of service to you.
The man behind you cannot understand
a word of French, so you may speak
freely.”
Though I foresaw some explanation on
my part would be necessary, I had so far
hardly looked upon the man before me
as other than our rescuer, one of our own
blood and habit and tongue; but now it
was the priest, and, more than that, my
equal, for he invited my confidence not
by right of his office but by right of his
equality, for gentle I divined him to be;
and at his demand I was sore confused,
for I knew that questionings must follow
which had been spared me on shipboard.
“My father,” I said, after a moment’s
hesitation, “ I do not know that you will
understand my story, but I am sure that
as a gentleman you will believe it, and as
a priest you will respect my confidence.”
“ I know many secrets; I have listened
to many stories, my daughter; yours will
be none the less sacredly guarded that it
comes of your own free will, and not un-
der the pressure of confession.”
Once I began, it was a relief. Since
Lady Jane’s death I had not spoken free-
ly to a human soul, and before I had gone
far I knew I spake to one who under-
stood.
When I told him of my guardian’s death,
of my utter loneliness, of my longing to
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be near him who stood nearer to me than
all else in the world, I caught the murmur,
“Poor child! poor child !” as he bent over
his dipping paddle, and these low words
of sympathy unsealed the last door of my
heart and I told him all without reserve:
how Lady Jane had diverted her inheri-
tance from her natural heir, Hugh, because
he was withheld from writing to her by a
sense of delicacy which would have been
felt by few; how she had taken such
offence at this during her illness that, un-
known to me, she had altered her will in
my favor, depriving him even of her for-
mer provision; how the same delicacy
which had prevented him approaching his
wealthy kinswoman separated him from
me, her heir; how his first separation
from Lady Jane had been a voluntary re-
nunciation of his own interest, to ensure
what he supposed would be my happiness ;
how he had for my sake performed a
hundred sacrifices, which in happier days
had been the delight of Lady Jane, his
cousin ; how all these things so worked on
me that, knowing my love would neither
speak nor come to me, I had thrown aside
all other considerations save that I was
bound to make restitution to one so un-
justly wronged, and who had so suffered
for my sake. For this I had broken
through every barrier convention had set
up, and, sure in his affection, I had come
forth alone underan assumed name; “for
I am no Madame de St. Just, mon pere,
but Margaret Nairn, and he whom I love
is Hugh Maxwell, in garrison at Louis-
bou rg.
“I know, mon p£re, that many will
point the finger of shame at me; will say
I am without decorum and without pride.
But, my father, I had been living with-
out the love for which my soul has hun-
gered all these years, until the want be-
came so strong that it swept away all the
petty rules of life and humbled my pride
in the dust. I came because I could not
stay, and now my one prayer is to find
him.”
When I had finished, he was silent for
a long time. “ My child,” he said at last,
“ that you have greatly dared, I need not
tell you. But you know nothing of the
pain, the misconstruction, the evil report,
to which you have exposed yourself.
“These ‘petty rules,’ as you style the
barriers which society has established, are
the safeguards of men and women in all
their relations, and these you have chosen
to disregard. Foi this sin against the
social law you will suffer as surely as
you would for any infraction of that
law which, because it is higher, we call
divine. You have only begun to realize
it, because you have now met with one of
those disarrangements we name 4 acci-
dent.’ Your plan, had it not been for
this, would have carried you safely to
Louisbourg, where you were to have met
and married M. de Maxwell ; but now your
whole design is overthrown; Louisbourg
is an impossibility; you are going in an
opposite direction. Again, up to the pres-
ent you have only met with your inferi-
ors, to whom you owed no explanation of
your position, but now the first man you .
meet happens to belong to your own class,
and your isolation is no longer possible.
Being a woman of high courage and prin-
ciple, you have revealed to him your po-
sition in all its helplessness. But are you
prepared to do the like when you meet the
next person to whom an explanation is
due? Can you again say, 4 1 am Margaret
Nairn come out to meet my lover’?”
“ Oh, my father, my father!” I cried,
with a bewildering shame at my heart,
and tears which I could not repress filling
my eyes. “How could I foresee this?
Everything seemed so plain. I was no
longer a young girl, but a woman grown,
with all a woman’s strength of love, when
the death of Lady Jane left me without a
soul to whom I could turn, save him to
whom I had given my first and only love.
I had been denied all its expression at the
time I most longed for it ; I was depri ved of
its support when I most needed it, through
the mistaken sense of honor which drove
into exile the gentlest and most devoted of
men. He was not one to push his own
interest at any time, and now that I am
burdened with this undesired fortune, his
pride would fasten the door between us.
It seemed to roe — I thought — that I could
come to him and say, 4 See, I bring back
what was yours by right.’ Then, I had
no doubts, no hesitations; but now they
crowd ir. upon me when I am alone, and
at times I cannot keep my heart from
sinking. I am not afraid, but I am in a
dark place, and I know not where to turn
for light.”
“Go to Her who has known sorrow
above all women, my daughter. Each of
us will think this over in such light as we
may find, and will decide as we may be
guided. Meantime do not waste your
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strength or courage in unavailing regrets
or reproaches. Remember this poor wo-
man with you has her own trial and anx-
iety. Give her your sympathy and your
help. I am a firm believer in the solace
of work.”
When we made our camp that night,
Lucy and I were allowed to take a share
in the preparation of the meal, much to
our delight, and afterwards we sat before
the blazing fire, while the priest told us
of his life amongst the roviug Indians, of
their strange customs and stranger be-
liefs, of their patient endurance in times
of want, of their despair when disease
made its appearance in their lodges, and
of the ruin wrought amongst them by
the white man's traffic in strong waters.
44 For the Indian it is no question of
French or English; whichever conquers,
he must go — nay, is passing even now —
with only such feeble hands as mine to
point the way of his going.” And there
were tears in his voice as he spoke.
Before we parted for the night I asked
by what name we might address him.
44 Le p&re Jean,” he answered.
“That is not difficult to remember,” I
said, smiling.
“Which is important, my daughter, for
it has to serve me from Gasp6 to Michili-
macinac. There is but little danger of
confusion in the names of missionaries,”
he added, sadly; “the laborers are few.”
When we left him I was glad to find
that even Lucy's strict views were not
proof against his simple goodness. I had
feared the very fact of his priestly office
would have prejudiced her, for I knew
her sect made little of much the older
religions held sacred; but in speaking of
him afterwards she simply said:
“The Lord is wiser than we. He knows
what vessels to choose for His service.”
We were so tired, and there was such a
sense of security in our new keeping, that
we were asleep before we knew; but dur-
ing the night I fell into a strange dream,
which so distressed me that I awoke, with
tears streaming down my face. What it
was I could not clearly gather, but with
the awakening came my sorrow afresh,
and I lay staring up into the blackness
with wide-open eyes.
Presently I heard Lucy’s soft whisper,
“ Dear heart, what is the matter?”
44 Lucy, why are you awake?”
44 Christopher,” she answered. “I
know my boy is in sore trouble on my
account, and, alas, he has not my faith
to support him.”
44 Lucy,” I whispered, after a pause, 44 1
have been selfish. In my own trouble I
have not remembered yours.”
44 Why should you, mistress?” she said,
simply. “You have been good to me
beyond what one in my condition has any
right to expect. My trouble can have no
claim, when you are burdened, perhaps
even beyond your strength.”
It was strange she should remember
the difference between us at such a time.
To me we were simply two women suffer-
ing a common sorrow in our severance
from those most dear to us, and I longed
to take her in my arms and tell her all
my pain. Had she been a mere servant,
I might have done so, if only for the
comfort of crying together; but she was
too near my own class, and yet not
quite of it, to permit me to take this sol-
ace. So we talked quietly for a space,
and then fell once more to sleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH.
The following morning, when we re-
sumed our quiet way in the canoe, le
p6re Jean asked, “Well, my daughter, did
any light come to you through the dark-
ness?”
“No, my father, but I have found a
little quiet.”
44 That is much. Now I shall ask you
to listen to me patiently, for I may sav
much with which you will not agree, but
you will trust me that I only say that which
I know to be best. We have every rea-
son to believe a serious descent will be
made on Louisbourg in the spring, so
that, apart from any other reason, your
presence in a town which will in all prob-
ability suffer a bombardment would be
unwise and undesirable in the last degree.
You have no idea of what war actually
means; it is a horror that would haunt
you to your dying day.”
“ But, my father, in that case I should
at least be by his side. That in itself
would mean everything to us both.”
“That is a point I had not intended
to touch on, my daughter. I know the
world. I know that men banished to
such exile as that in which M. de Max-
well has lived change much with the
years. Think how you have changed
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yourself, in happier surroundings than he
has known. Think what new connec-
tions he may have formed. Did you nev-
er think that he. . . .”
“Oh, my father, what would you tell
me? Do you know M. de Maxwell?”
“I have never been in Louisbourg,”
he answered, somewhat coldly, as if my
earnestness had hurt him.
“But you do not'mean that he may
be married?”
“ He may be. It would surely not be
unnatural.”
“ It might not in another man, but in
him it would be impossible. He is not
as other men.”
“ May I ask, my daughter, if he ever
asked you in marriage?”
“ No, my father; I told you how he was
situate. Besides, my guardian then wished
me to marry another.”
“And you would not?”
“I did not,” I answered, with some
little hauteur, for I held this was beside
the matter, and a subject on which even
he had no right to question me.
“ Well, that can make but little differ-
ence now,” he said, after a short pause.
“What does make the difference is that
Louisbourg is an impossibility for you at
the present. Your best course is to go
on to Quebec. I shall give you letters to
M. de Montcalm, who is so old and inti-
mate a friend that I may ask him any
favor. He will see that you have passage
in the first fitting vessel for France. In
order that you may not be subject to em-
barrassing surmises, I hold your best plan
is to continue to style yourself Mme. de
St. Just; in fact, that has now become a
necessity. Once in France, you can, with
the influence at your command — for I will
see that M. de Montcalm furthers your
desire— procure the recall of M. de Max-
well in the spring, and so realize the
dream which has now led you so far
astray.
“ Do not think I am blaming you over-
much,” he added, quickly; “you have
been led astray because you could not
see as the world sees. Your heart and
motive were pure, were generous, but
none the less are you subject to those
rules which govern so rigorously the
class to which you belong, whose very ex-
istence depends on their observance. In
a romance, the world would no doubt
have wept over your perplexities; but in
real life it would crush you, because you
have sinned against the only code it ac-
knowledges. Your purity and faithful-
ness would count for nothing. Believe
me, my child, I know it and its ways.”
So it was decided ; and at once I began
to plan with new hope for the desire of
my heart; and such was the change it
wrought in me that the whole world took
on a new interest to my eyes.
For the first time I realized the gran-
deur of the river into which we had now
fully entered; the sullen sweep of black
water in the depths, the dance of silver
over the shallows, the race of waves down
the rapids between its ever -changing
banks, now like imprisoning walls with
great sombre pines, now open and radi-
ant with the gold and scarlet of the ma-
ples, marshalled in order by the white
lances of the slender birches.
At times Lucy and I were allowed to
walk along the reaches of level sand to
relieve the strain on the paddlers, where
the river ran swift and strong, and when
we at length gained the great stretch of
the lake called Matapediac, like the river,
my heart was full of the beauty and
charm about me.
“The span o’ Life’s nae lang eneugh,
Nor deep eneugh the sea,
Nor braid eneugh this weary warld,
To part my Love frae me. ...”
I sang in my heart, for was it not all so
wonderful, so beyond all planning, this
way of Love? It might be long, it might
be wearying, but it would lead aright in
the end.
When the head of the lake was reached,
the canoes were lifted from the wrater;
that of the strange Indians was left be-
hind, but ours they raised on their shoul-
ders, and Andre carrying the scanty bag-
gage of the priest, we set off on a long
carry, or portage, as they call it. This
occupied two days, as the path was diffi-
cult, and we found a sad encumbrance
in our skirts, which suffered much in
the traverse. We took the water again
at a tiny stream, and finally gained an-
other, called the Metis, leading to the St.
Lawrence, our highway for Quebec. At
the Metis the strange Indians left us and
returned to join their fellows.
Late one afternoon le pere Jean ran
the canoe inshore, and, nothing loath,
we left her in charge of Andr6, to follow
the priest up the high bank and take our
way on foot under the great pines.
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A low breeze was moving almost si-
lently among the trees, bringing an un-
wonted freshness we could almost taste.
Soon we marked the screen of under-
growth which hid the sun grow thinner
and thinner, until his rays came shining
low through a halo of golden leaves,
with gleams like to glancing water.
Breathless, we hurried on until we swept
aside the last veil and found ourselves
on the open cliff, overlooking mile beyond
mile of dancing water, which the setting
sun covered with a trail of glory break-
ing in ripples on a beach of golden sand,
which stretched below the cliff on which
we stood.
“ Oh, the sea! the sea!” I cried, sink-
ing to the ground, overwhelmed by the
flood of feeling which broke upon me.
It was the promise of a new world of
light and safety after the black swift
river and the sombre forest from which
we had escaped.
“No, my daughter, not the sea; la
Grande Riviere, the St. Lawrence !” said le
pere Jean, almost reverently. “ Do you
wonder these poor Indians worship it?”
“ Oh, it is blessed! blessed! It means
home ! It is like to heaven !” I whispered,
and then I fell a-crying with very hap-
piness.
Presently Lucy touched me on the
shoulder. “ See ! there is Andr6 !” And be-
low we saw the Indian paddling out into
the open. He went cutting through the
golden water until he was some distance
from the shore, when he stood upright,
gently rocking as he balanced, gazing up
the river. Suddenly he crouched down
again and made all haste toward us, cry-
ing, as he came within call: “Mon p6re!
Dufour! Dufour! Gabriel Dufour!”
“ This is fortunate, most fortunate,” ex-
claimed the priest. “ It will save us many
a weary mile, and perhaps weeks of wait-
ing. Gabriel is a pilot with one of the best
boats on the river, and your way to Que-
bec is now easy. It could not have fall-
en out better.”
“'One of those disarrangements we
name accident,7 inon p6re?” I said.
“No, my daughter; when we are
schooled sufficiently to read aright, wre
name it ‘Providence,7” he returned,
gravely.
We took our places in the canoe once
more, and with deep, long strokes she
was forced through the current across the
mouth of the stream. We disembarked
on the farther side, and all made our way
out to the end of the low point, which
stretched far into the wide river. My
disappointment was great when I could
make out nothing of the object to which
Andre triumphantly pointed, but this the
priest pronounced, without hesitation, to
be the pilot’s boat.
“Andre, dry wood,” he commanded;
and to us he added, “ You can help, if you
will.”
We ran back to where a fringe of
bleached drift-wood marked the line of
the highest tides, and returned with our
arms laden with the dry, tindery stuff.
Carefully selecting the smallest pieces, the
Indian skilfully built a little pile, but so
small I wondered at his purpose. The
priest, kneeling by it, soon had it alight,
and kept adding to it constantly, while
Andre ran off again to return with a sup-
ply of green brush ; by this time a heap of
glowing coals was ready, and on this the
Indian carefully laid his green branches,
one after another. In a few minutes a
strong, thick smoke arose, and went curl-
ing out in a long, thin line over the now
quiet waters of the river.
Meantime le p6re Jean had a second
pile of coals in readiness, and at his word
Andre quickly smothered up the first with
sand, and after waiting for the smoke to
drift completely away, soon had a second
thread trailing out after the first. This
was repeated again, and the fire extin-
guished as before.
“There, my daughter! that is the man-
ner in which we sometimes send a mes-
sage in this country, and the answer will
be the appearance of Maitre Gabriel him-
self by the morning.”
We then withdrew to the shelter of the
wood, for the smoothest sand makes but
a sorry bed, and made our camp for the
night.
After our meal, le p&re Jean bade Andr6
pile more drift-wood on our fire, and pro-
ducing the little journal in which he kept
the brief record of his labors, as required
by h is Order, he fell to writing.
“ Here,” he said, when he had finished,
handing me the folded paper, “is your let-
ter to my good friend M. de Montcalm.
It is not over-long, as paper is much too
precious to waste in compliments; I have
used so much, as it is, in fully explain-
ing your position, so that you may not
be exposed to embarrassing inquiries in
demanding his fullest assistance, and that
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you may be under the lightest personal
obligation, that I have left no space to
set forth your future movements; these
you must yourself lay before him, and so
spare me the sacrifice of another page of
my precious journal.”
The next morning, as the priest had
foretold, we were awakened by Andre's
announcement of the pilot's arrival, and
before long, Gabriel Dufour was present-
ed in due form. He was a stout, thick-set
man, much reddened by exposure, with his
dark hair gathered into a well-oiled pig-
tail, comfortably dressed in gray home-
spun jacket and breeches, with bright
blue stockings, and a short canvas apron,
like to the fishermen in France.
He at once expressed himself ready to
take us to Quebec.
44 What day have you chosen for your
return, Gabriel?” asked le p£re Jean.
44Qui choisit, prend le pire, mon pere.
All days are alike for me. Monday, Tues-
day, Wednesday, I find much the same as
Thursday, Friday, Saturday. I can start
to-day, to-morrow, or the day after that,
as madame may say.”
44 Then I will speak for madame. and say
to-day,” returned the priest; and added,
in his quiet way: 44 1 bid you beware of
Master Gabriel's fair words, madame.
To quote from his favorite proverbs, 4 il
est n6 dimanche, il aime besogne faite,’ he
will promise you anything.”
4 4 4 Ce que femme veut, Dieu le veut,’
mon pere,” he answered, laughing. “Well,
I am ready at once, if madame can support
the poverty of my poor cabin.”
44 Ah, Maitre Gabriel, if you knew how
much your care will mean to us, you
would make no apologies.”
44 Come, come, Gabriel ! No more prov-
erbs, no more delays,” exclaimed le p6re
Jean, and, as the pilot hurried off to his
shallop, he took both my hands in his.
44 My child, remember God goes with
you by land and water, by day and night,
and He will surely bring you to the goal
which He alone can see,” and then he
raised his hand, and I knelt while he
blessed us both.
c FI a r TEH xv.
THE MARQUIS DE ST. VKRAN.
In Maitre Gabriel I found a type I
could readily understand ; he was very
shrewd, very curious, with a passion for
questioning, but so honest and childlike
that he took no offence at any rebuff.
He was a thorough sailor, a martinet to
his little crew, vain of his skill and boast-
ful of his courage, and confident of the
showing he and his fellow -Canadians
would make against 44les goddams,”
should they venture to appear.
He insisted on hearing the story of our
capture in detail, and seemed much more
amused at the address of the Indians than
distressed at our misfortune.
“They were good fellows, after all,
madame. If it had not been for them,
you would not have fallen into the hands
of le pere Jean. But, bedame! I cannot
understand why he should send you to
Quebec when he knew you were bound
for Louisbourg. A priest, no doubt,
knows much, but I can tell you, madame,
if you came to me and whispered 4 Louis-
bourg,’ it would not be by way of Quebec
I should send you. If you have any rea-
son to be there, there is no time like the
present, for the English are on their way
thither even now; and if they are fright-
ened away by our ships, they will be back
in the spring; take my word for it!”
44 But, Gabriel, le pere Jean spoke as if
nothing was to be feared from any attempt
they might make at present.”
44 Perhaps not, but they may try it, all
the same. They have been in Halifax
for months past, and only sailed in Au-
gust. I do not think it will come to any-
thing myself, but in the spring all Jhe
music will be on hand, and the dancing
before Louisbourg will begin in earnest.
But pardon, madame; I forgot you had
friends there, or I would not have let my
tongue run on so.”
“No, no, Gabriel; I wish to hear all
you have learned. Why is it impossible
to go to Louisbourg?”
“Bedame! I never said it was impossi-
ble to go to Louisbourg, madame; mais,
4 qui se tient k Paris, ne sera jamais pape,’
and your face is not in the right direction.
If you would be there, madame, I would
er,ga£e to find you a way in the teeth of
all 4 les goddams ’ who ever chewed rosbif.
But I forget; we are going to Quebec,”
he ended, slyly, evidently desirous that I
should talk.
This, however, I would not do, but he
had given me matter enough to keep me
awake by night and set me anxiously
dreaming by day.
Why had the priest been so determined
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THE SPAN O’ LIFE.
93
to keep me from Louisbourg? Now that
I thought it over, I saw that I had never
urged my wish at all. I had allowed my
whole purpose to be swept aside at his
first firm refusal to consider my request.
And all this time Hugh was in danger,
whilst I had turned my back upon him.
If not in danger now, he certainly would
be in the spring, and all my effort, with
those weary miles of sea again between
us, would be unavailing for his recall.
Indeed, he would probably refuse to leave
his post if it were threatened by an en-
emy. Why had I consented? Why was
I even now lengthening the -heart-break-
ing distance between us with every cow-
ard mile I travelled? Why had I not
pleaded with le pdre Jean, instead of obey-
ing blindly like a child? He had not
known the real danger, perhaps, or his
advice would have been different.
Could I have spoken freely with Lucy,
I might have gained some comfort; but,
alas! my lips were sealed towards her.
How could I expect her to understand
even if I could speak? My distress she
would readily comprehend, but she could
not possibly know anything of such a
love as Hugh’s; so I was forced to take
the sympathy of her silent companion-
ship, making her such return as I
might.
Gabriel I grew almost afraid of; he
questioned me so cunningly, without
seeming to do so, that I was in constant
dread lest I should betray my secret and
declare the desire which was consuming
me. It was a relief when I could turn
his curiosity and lead him to talk of his
own life and the places we passed; for the
wilderness of hills of the North Shore, to
which we had crossed, was broken here
and there by settlements, as at Les Eboule-
mens, where the tiny church and village
nestled by the water’s edge at the foot of
mountains rising and rolling back to pur-
ple heights behind. We were here shut out
from the main river by the wooded shores
of the Isle aux Coudres, which Gabriel
regarded with peculiar pride, as some-
where on its farther side stood his white-
washed cottage, where his wife kept her
lonely guard during his long absences,
and spent sleepless watches on wild
nights in autumn, entreating the protec-
tion of St. Joseph and Our Lady of Good
Help for her man, fighting for life some-
where on the dangerous waters.
“She must be very strong with her
prayers, ma bonne femme, for every time
I have come safe home — eh, madame?”
It was a pleasure to me to confirm him
in his belief.
The next morning we passed the wide
mouth of the Gouffre at Baie St. Paul, hut
fortunately without experiencing its for-
midable wind, and early in the afternoon
we saw rising before us the purple mass
of Cap Tourmonte. We stood well out
here to escape the strong current; in the
distance before us lay the green shores of
the island of Orleans, and behind it to
the north Gabriel pointed out the beauti-
fully rising slopes of the Cote de Beaupre,
with the pride of a man who is in love
with his country.
But soon his attention became fixed on
a boat of better appearance than any we
had as yet seen, standing in for the main
shore.
“No fishing-boat that!” he exclaimed.
“It must be some of the officers down
from Quebec.” He altered our course so
that we stood in to intercept her. His
excitement grew as we approached. “I
am right,” he shouted. “She is the yacht
from Quebec. I must go on board. They
will wish to hear what news I carry from
below.”
As soon as we were within a reasonable
distance he made some signal with his
sail, and both boats staying their way, he
launched his shallop over the side, and
quickly rowed to the stranger. We watch-
ed him with keen interest, especially as
we saw there were officers on board. Be-
fore long he was on his way back to us,
and as soon as lie was within speaking
distance he called, in the greatest excite-
ment:
“Oh, madame! On board there is his
Excellency M. de Montcalm. He wishes
to see you. Pardon, madame, pardon if
I say hurry. Do not keep him waiting.”
It was indeed a startling summons, and
the last I was expecting, but I accepted
it without hesitation, and making such
slight preparation as was possible, Ga-
briel helped me carefully into the tossing
boat; and put such heart into his rowing
that in a few moments we were safely
alongside the yacht, and a strong hand
was held down to me. “Courage, ma-
dame, hold firmly and step slowly,” and,
as the shallop lifted, I stepped lightly to
the deck, where I was surrounded by a
group of gentlemen.
“ Madame,” said one of them, bowing,
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
91
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
“lam Monsieur de Montcalm, and, believe
me. my best endeavors are entirely at your
service. We have heard something of your
adventure from our good Maitre Gabriel
here.”
“ Monsieur le marquis, it is to your
friend le pere Jean we owe our safety, and
he has added to my obligation by com-
mending me to your care in this letter,” I
said, handing him the precious billet.
“Any lady in your position, madame,
would command my service of right, but
such a recommendation makes it obliga-
tory; there is little I would not do to
please my friend le pere Jean.”
As he glanced over the note, I had op-
portunity to observe him more closely. I
had often heard of him from Gaston in
the old days, for they had been friends
from boyhood, and had done much cam-
paigning together in Germany and else-
where. He looked worn, like a man who
had grown old before his time, but I could
trace the likeness to the warm-hearted,
hot-headed young officer whom I had so
often pictured, in his large eyes, which
had lost nothing of their youthful fire,
and in his smile, which had the charm
that does not disappear with years.
“Madame de St. Just,” he said, when
he had finished reading, “ I can spare you
the necessity of even asking my help, and
must not lay you under any obligation
greater than this little voyage from your
boat to mine, to which you would not
have been subject had I known of your
relation to my friend le p6re Jean. He
tells me your intention was to have gone
to Louisbourg. If that be still your de-
sire, madame, I can at least spare you the
journey to Quebec, and can promise you
an easy passage to Louisbourg as soon as
the snow makes good travelling, for in
Canada, summer is no time for a long
journey across country. But let us be
seated and talk this matter over quietly,”
and he waved his hand towards the stern
of the yacht, where some of the officers
hastened to arrange their cloaks into com-
fortable seats.
My heart was in the strangest commo-
tion as I saw the drift of circumstance
that was sweeping me onward, without
effort on my part, towards the end I most
desired ; I had not spoken, and here was
the arbiter of my fate putting into words
all that I dared not ask. I resolved not
even to think, but to leave the issue in
his hands.
“Had you ever met le p&re Jean before,
madame?” he resumed.
“ No, monsieur. How could I? But I
cannot help feeling I have met you. I was
wont to hear your name very often when
a young girl.”
“ Indeed? And to whom did I owe that
favor?”
“ To your friend the Vicomte de Trin-
cardel.”
He stared at me as if in great amaze-
ment, and when he spoke his tone was
that of a man deeply puzzled.
“You know the Vicomte de Trincar-
del?”
“ Assuredly, monsieur — that is, I did
know him. He was a frequent visitor at
my guardian's both in Paris and London,”
and then I stupidly fell to blushing like
a schoolgirl.
“Strange, very strange,” he muttered
in an absent manuer.
“ No, monsieur, not strange,” I answer-
ed, for I could not bear he should mis-
understand; “my family name is Nairn,
and my guardian was the late Lady Jane
Drummond.”
“Oh, pardon me, madame; it was only
the odd chance of my meeting with you
that I marvelled at. But it is a narrow
world, after all, for a few years ago, when
in Italy, I heard of your brother from the
Cardinal York ; he spoke of him in terms
of the warmest affection.”
“H61as! monsieur, my brother is dead
to me. He has deserted the cause to which
I and mine have been faithful; he now
holds a commission in the English army.”
“ Again I must ask for pardon; but to
come back to your plans. Now as to
Louisbourg, there is no danger, madame,
either on the journey or when you reach
there, provided you leave again before
spring. You can be safely back in Quebec
before the snows go. and on your way to
France by the first ship long ere any seri-
ous danger threatens. I am taking for
granted, however, that you will hardly
choose to remain in this enchanting colony
longer than may be necessary. Would
it meet your wish if you were to return
by the spring?”
“Oh, perfectly, perfectly, monsieur!”
I exclaimed, overjoyed to answer a
question which presented no difficulties
and opened out a way before me.
“Then, madame, I would recommend
the following plan : instead of going on to
Quebec, by which you will lose little save
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
rennes; but with it I have taken care to
enclose that of le pere Jean, for our good
Canadians, as you will find, attach more
value to the simple word of a priest — and
in this instance I will not say they are
wrong — than to the command of any
civil authority. His letter will spare
you all explanations with the mother,
and this other will serve as an order for
that gallantcoureurdes bois, her son, when
he puts in an appearance, in the event of
his visiting Beaulieu before I see him in
Quebec. Let me assure you. further, that
you have only to command my services,
should you need them, either before or
after you may reach Louisbourg. The
Chevalier de Drucour, I am persuaded,
will be only too ready to do me a service,
should I ask it either on my behalf or on
that of another. I shall esteem it if you
will consider yourself as under my pro-
tection.”
“ But, monsieur, what claim have I to
all this kindness?” I asked, overwhelmed
at the possibilities I saw before me.
“You are the friend of my friend; I
would do anything for his sake,” he an-
swered, simply, disdaining any of those
compliments which would so readily sug-
gest themselves to a man of less nice
breeding.
“ I am sorry we cannot offer you any
fitting hospitality here,” he said, as he
rose. Then, turning towards the others,
he added : “ Gentlemen, I am apologizing
for our scanty larder, which prevents
our detaining Mme. de St. Just for sup-
per. M. de Bougainville, as a mathema-
tician, might have seen to a less exact
but more generous provision.”
4i His head was among the stars,” ex-
plained a jovial-looking officer in a rue-
ful tone, “and we less-exalted mortals
are the losers, alas!”
“ But surely we have somewhat to
drink to the success of madame's jour-
ney?” said M. de Montcalm, in mock
alarm.
“Assuredly, mon general! I at least
was not star-gazing when I laid in the
Bordeaux. I can even provide a glass
of Frontignan for madatne,” responded
a little bright-eyed officer.
“Bravo, Joannes!” laughed the gen-
eral. “Frontignan! That brings back
the whole South, madame; its very name
makes me homesick. Homesickness
makes us all young, makes us all little
children again. Ma foi ! I believe that
is why the Spaniard pretended the Foun
tain of Youth was to be found in the
New World. I defy any one to remain
here and not have perpetual youth, if my
theory be correct.”
“ But at least madame did not come to
seek it,” responded M. de Bougainville,
gallantly, “ and we are keeping tier stand-
ing.”
Thereupon they touched my glass in
order, each with a prettily turned wish
for my good fortunes, and I tasted the
sweet wine of Frontignan in return to
the toast they drank together. No wishes
could have been more welcome, and the
little friendly ceremony meant much to
me; indeed my heart was very full when
M. de Montcalm bent over and kissed my
hand as he helped me into the shallop
and we pulled off into the dusk. Did I
need anything further to set my uneasy
mind at rest, I found it in the quiet words
of Lucy when I told her of the outcome
of my visit.
“ Oh, my dear mistress,” she exclaimed,
in a voice full of feeling, “ He hath made
our path straight to our feet!”
chapter xvi
AT BEAULIEU.
Gabriel altered his course with the
satisfaction of a man conlirmed in his
superior judgment. “II y a remede a
tout fors k la mort, madame, and this has
come at the last hour,” he cried, in great
satisfaction. “ I suppose le pere Jean
would say yon were going to Louisbourg
all the time, only it would look to an or-
dinary sinner like a precious long way
round,” and he chuckled at his jest as he
bustled about, filling every one with some-
what of his brimming content.
Favored by the tide and a strong wind,
we made a good run during the night, and
when we awoke we were again coasting
along the peaceful reaches of the South
Shore with its frequeut settlements and
clearings— a pleasant change after the wil-
derness of the North.
Early in the afternoon Gabriel pointed
to a long point stretching out into the
river.
“ That is the Beacon Point of Beaulieu,
madame. A beacon is piled there, ready
for firing, winter and summer. The en-
trance to the river is just on this side, and
on the other is the great bay where the
porpoise fishery takes place. The manor
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE SPAN O’ LIFE.
97
cannot be seen from tbe river; it is safe
and snug from the storms, a little in-
land/'
Before Ion." we entered the mouth of the
little river, to the right of which stretched
a broad expanse of tidal meadow, dotted
witii small platforms, each supporting its
load of coarse salt hay, safe above the
reach of the highest tides; to the left was
the dense pine wood covering the Beacon
Point. Fields and woods wore the som-
bre colors, the browns and purples of au-
tumn, though here and there a sturdy
maple still hung out its banner of yellow
or red. lighting up the dark greens of the
unchanging pines. As we advanced, tbe
windings of the river disclosed stretches
of lure meadow and empty fields, for the
harvest had long been gathered. The
whole was set in a background of low
purple hills. But soon we caught a new
interest as a windmill, and then a long
wooden house having a high-pitched roof,
broken by a row of pointed dormer-win-
dows, with a detached tower at each end,
came into view.
‘ There, madame, that is the manor!”
Gabriel announced with evident pride, to
which I made suitable return, for despite
its humble form, like a substantial Nor-
man farm house, its great length and the
two towers gave to it an appearance which
removed it out of the common.
Our boat was made fast to a little land-
ing-place, and we disembarked ; but, to my
surprise, noone appeared to welcome or to
question us. Gabriel led the way up to
th*- iiouse through a garden, which must
have been a model of neatness in summer-
time. but was now stripped and blackened
by the early frosts. Though the door of
the house stood hospitably open to us, no
answer came to our echoing knock.
Going round to the hack proved equally
fruitless, but I espied two women working
in a field at a short distance, and bidding
Gabriel await me, I took my way towards
them. I found them engaged, with spade
ami fork. digging up reddish- looking roots,
which they piled in little heaps.
“ I bring letters to Mme. de Sarennes,”
I said. addressing the younger woman,
who seemed confused, but whose face I
could barely see for the great bonnet
which covered her head like a cowl, “but
I find no one in the house. Can you tell
me what to do/’
“ If madame will return and find a seat
in the house, I shall bring some one,” she
answered, prettily enough, and dropping
her fork, she ran towards the house.
44 What are those things you are dig-
ging up?” I asked tbe elder woman.
“Potatoes, madame.”
44 But do the people eat them?*’ I in-
quired, for I knew they were not used in
France.
“ 4 Only the Bostonnais and cattle,’ we
used to say, madame, but now the Inten-
dant has ordered them to be planted and
eaten by all.”
4* And they will obey?”
44 ‘ Le miel n’est pas pour les anes,’
madame; those who do not, will go hun-
gry/’she answered, laughing.
I was interested in the news, as well as
in the calm philosophy with which the
innovation was accepted, and after a few
more questions I returned to the front of
the house.
The room into which the entrance gave
— for it was more of a room than a hall—
was large and low, with a ceiling painted
white, supported by heavy beams; it was
carpeted and furnished with much com-
fort— much more than one would find in
a similar house either in Scotland or
France.
In a short time a young lady entered,
her dark olive face well set off by her
brown hair, becomingly though simply
dressed, and her light girlish figureshow-
ing to advantage in a flowered gown.
“I am Mile, de Sarennes, madame,
and I regret that you should have been
kept waiting.” She began gravely enough,
but catching some wonderment in my
face, she continued, laughing merrily:
“ Ob, ’tis of no use ; I can never masquer-
ade! I am Queen of the Fields, madame,
and you surprised me a moment ago.
sceptre in hand,” whereupon she made
me a grand courtesy, nearly sinking to
the floor.
44 And I am Mme.de St. Just,” I an-
swered, joining in her girlish fun, “ a poor
rescued prisoner seeking for shelter;* and
this is my waiting- woman and very good
friend, Lucy Routh. I come to you with
letters from M. de Montcalm, trusting our
presence may not prove a burthen to
you.”
i4 But here is my mother,” said the
young girl, quickly. “ Not a word to her
of how you discovered me; she will never
acknowledge that such a thing as field-
work is necessary, though there is not a
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THE SPAN O’ LIFE.
99
ners, to which I had been well accustom-
ed in Lady Jane.
As soon as we had settled these matters,
I agreed with Gabriel that he should go
on to Quebec, there to obtain some neces-
saries of which I stood in much need, as
did poor Lucy.
“You do not expect to find shops there,
surely!” laughed mademoiselle. “But
my friend Mme. de Lanaudiere will glad-
ly undertake the buying of the mate-
rial, and we will make such shift for the
fitting as is possible here.”
So we were installed as guests, and on
the morrow Gabriel was despatched on
his important errand; before he returned
we had taken our places as members of
the little household.
Mile, de Sarennes — Angelique, as she
insisted on my calling her— would not
consent to my helping in the fields, so
Lucy and I took charge in the house,
where Lucy did marvels in the kitch-
en, even to eliciting approbation from
Mme. de Sarennes, which Angelique as-
sured us was praise indeed, for her mo-
ther was a housekeeper of the school
which did not acknowledge that excel-
lence of performance called for auy thing
beyond a refraining from criticism. How
could I be other than content? I was sur-
rounded by a daily round of interest, al-
most of affection, and, most precious of
all, by a gentle courtesy which accepted
me as a guest without question or curi-
osity as to my past. Le pere Jean had
answered for me, and that was enough.
When Gabriel returned I paid him for
his services, though it was only when I
had assured the honest fellow I was amply
able to do so that he consented to receive
anything from me. When he was leaving
me he charged me with great earnestness:
“ Madame, should you need me at any
time, either by day or night, all you have
to do is to light the beacon. If by night,
let it burn brightly; if by day, do as you
saw le pere Jean, and go on repeating it
until you see the answering smoke from
the island, or my sail.”
“But, my good Gabriel, I am not like-
ly to trouble you, as when I go from here
it will be by land, and in a different di-
rection.”
“ Qui dit averti, dit muni, madame; no
one can tell what may happen, and it
may do no harm to know you have one
near who would be proud if you called
on him for help.”
Vol. XCVIII.— No. 583 -12
I was greatly touched by his thought-
fulness, a frank offer coming direct from
the heart of a brave man towards a wo-
man he fears may some day be in need of
his service.
“ Gabriel, is every one kind in Canada?
I do not know why I should mefet with
such care.”
“ We are all saints, no doubt, madame;
but that is not the Reason,” he returned,
gayly, and set off for his boat.
After his departure our life together
went on without interruption. By the
end of November the whole country was
covered with snow, which we hailed with
delight, for it meant the speedy arrival
of M. de Sarennes, and then — Louis-
bourg! I had often seen snow as a child
at home in Scotland, but there it meant
storm and desolation, and, alas, only too
frequently suffering and death to man
and beast; but here it came as a beauty
and a blessing, welcomed by all. _ An-
gelique took us over miles of snow-cov-
ered fields and through woods that had
a charm of softness unknown in summer-
time, until we could manage our snow-
shoes without clumsiness.
“You must harden your muscles and
exercise your lungs for the journey you
have before you,” she declared, “and not
shame my training when you take the
highroad with Charles.”
Like her mother, she was never tired
of talking of M. de Sarennes. He was
their only pride, and never was son or
brother more precious than was their
Charles to them, so I looked forward
with keen satisfaction to the day I should
start under his care.
They hoped for him by the New-Year,
and we all busied ourselves in preparation
for the little feast which we agreed should
be delayed if necessary to welcome his
return.
On the last night of the year we sat
together about the fire, Angelique laugh-
ing and chattering incessantly; her mo-
ther sitting with her spinning-wheel, her
wedding-gift from the Marquis de Beau-
harnois — a dainty construction of ma-
hogany tipped with ivory and silver —
whirring peacefully as with skilful fin-
gers she guided the fine flax from her
spindle; Lucy at a little distance was
knitting methodically; and I expectant,
excited by Angelique's unrest.
“ Ah, Marguerite, wrhatashame Charles
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must tack on that odious 4 madam e ’ ev-
ery time lie addresses you!” exclaimed
Ang61ique, merrily. “ Had I my way, I’d
banish the ‘madame’ as I would banish
every one who has a claim on you, and
keep you all for our very own. What
nonsense to have other people in the
world when we want you so much ! Stay
with us! I’ll marry you myself; I’m
sure I’m worth all ^he men in the world
put together!”
“Be sensible, my daughter, be sensi-
ble!” interrupted Mme. de Sarennes, in
her unruffled voice. “I cannot thiuk
how you find such nonsense amusiug.”
“ Now, maman, be fair I Do you know
any man in the whole world, except
Charles, you like better than me? There!
There ! I told you ! And my mother has
the very best taste in the world — eh,
4 Mademoiselle ’ Marguerite?” And the
madcap jumped up, and running over to
her mother, embraced her in spite of her
remonstrances.
In the midst of this turmoil a soft
knock was heard, and we all sprang to
our feet.
“Come in! Come in!” called Ange-
lique, running to the door; but it opened
before she could reach it, and there in the
bright light stood an Indian holding his
snow-shoes in his hand.
As soon as I saw him I could not re-
press a cry of terror, for he was the very
chief from whom le pere Jean had res-
cued me.
“Do not be alarmed, Marguerite. He
is Luntook, my son’s man. He always
brings word of my son's return.”
The Indian explained to Angdlique in
his broken French that his master had
but sent him to announce his coming,
and paid not the slightest attention either
to Lucy or myself. As soon as he had
answered Angel ique’s eager questionings
he took himself off again, and we began
our preparations.
44 He will be here in an hour!” sang
Angdlique, as she danced about the room
like a mad thing. Fresh wood was piled
on the fire; the table was set with the
best linen and silver, and loaded with
every delicacy we had prepared; candles
were placed in each window, of which
the heavy wooden shutters were thrown
back, and soon the whole house was a
blaze of light.
Into all this entered the long-expected
guest, who, after tenderly embracing his
mother, was caught in a whirl of kisses
and questionings showered on him by
Angelique. Suddenly she released him,
crying: “But stop, Charles, you make
me forget myself! Here is Mme. de St.
Just, for whose sake, most of all, we have
been waiting for you.”
Whilst I acknowledged his salutation,
Angelique rattled on: “She has waited
for you all this time to take her to Lou-
isbourg, she and her waiting - woman.
Where is Lucie? Oh, she has gone —
frightened by the Indian, no doubt. She
— I mean Marguerite — is so glad you have
come. When do you go back?”
44 Not to-night, at all events, ma belle.
I’m sure that even niadame would not
ask that. In any case not until I’ve tasted
some of these good things. We cannot
boast such a table at Mir6.”
With much laughter we gradually set-
tled down. When M. de Sarennes had
doffed his outer wrappings and appeared
in a close-fitting suit of some dark blue
stuff, I thought I had seldom seen a
handsomer type of man, and did not won-
der at the pride his womenkind displayed.
He was very tall, had a dark olive face
like his sister, great hashing eyes, and
black hair that rolled handsomely off his
well-shaped forehead; and I could easily
imagine that more usual clothing would
transform him into a prince among his
fellows.
Before taking his place at table he left
us for a little to see after his men, who
were provided for in the kitchen. When
he returned, he said :
“Luntook, my Indian, tells me that it
was he who carried you off, inadaine.
He had taken you for English women,
and even now can scarce be persuaded he
was mistaken, though he gave you up to
le pere Jean.”
“We are English women, monsieur.”
“And you would go to Louisbourg?”
he asked, I thought sharply, with a flash
of his great eyes.
“ Yes, monsieur,” I said, quietly.
But he said nothing further beyond as-
suring me that the Indian was thorough-
ly trustworthy, and I need be in no fear
of him.
Thereupon we sat down to table, and
as her brother ate, Angdlique related to
him our story, or, rather, a merry bur-
lesque of our adventures, at which he
laughed heartily.
“ Well, madame, I have news for your
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waiting-woman, at least; though why she
should run away when she must be dy-
ing to hear it is more than I can imagine.
Tell her that her son arrived safely at
Louisbourg, where he was soon a hot fa-
vorite with every one in the garrison,
and most of all with tlie Chevalier de
Maxwell.” Here he paused to raise his
glass, looking hard at me the while. To
my distress, the telltale blood leaped to
my face at the unexpected mention of
that dear name. “Being a stirring lad
and much attached to me,” he continued,
without apparently noticing my confu-
sion, “he begged to be allowed to join
me on an expedition. We were surprised
by the English, and he was slightly
wounded — oh, nothing, I assure you, ma-
dame, a mere scratch ! — and carried off a
prisoner, but no doubt is even now as
great a favorite with them as he was
with us. Should they come to look us
up in the spring, I doubt not he will be
found in their ranks. At all events, he
is with his friends, and is safe.”
So rejoiced was I to hear this news for
Lucy's sake that I excused myself and
withdrew to my room, where I found the
dear patient soul on her knees, awaiting
whatever tidings I might bring.
“Oh, dear mistress,” she said, quietly,
when I had told her all, “I have prayed
and hoped, but at times my poor faith
would almost fail me; and even now,
when trembling at what I might have to
bear, His message comes that all is well
with the child.”
CHAPTER XVII.
I FIND MYSELF IX A FALSE P08ITI0N.
The rest of the week passed quickly, in
one sense, though every hour of it dragged
for me. I was burning with impatience
to hear M. de Sarennes speak some word
of his intended departure, and yet could
not bring myself to put the ungracious
question when I saw the dear pleasure his
stay meant to his mother. Never had I
seen more tender, respectful attention
than that with which he surrounded her.
He would sit by her for hours listening
to her tales of his father, or in relating
his own adventures and successes against
the English.
“ Have a care, my son,” she would say,
with an anxiety not unmixed with pride;
“ they w ill riot forget these things. They
may try to work us evil for it some day.”
“ No fear, ma mere! not while I am by
to defend you,” he would answer, with a
protecting love that redeemed his con-
fidence from mere bravado.
He accompanied Angelique and me on
all our walks, explaining to us the simpler
mysteries of his wonderful woodcraft,
and keenly enjoying our ready admira-
tion. But my mind was uneasy. With
the assuredness of a man accustomed to
facile conquest, he pressed his attentions
upon me in a manner to which I was unac-
customed, greatly to my embarrassment.
No woman of my day could, in ordi-
nary circumstances, be at a loss to inter-
pret any attentions she might receive.
In our world gallantry was a science well
understood; as exact as war, its every
move had its meaning; its rules were
rigidly defined, and no one ever thought
of transgressing them; so there reigned
a freedom which made society a pleasure,
and the intercourse with men was exact-
ly what the lady chose it should be.
But now I was brought face to face
with a man who, whatever might be his
birth, had neither breeding nor education ;
who was accustomed to see his desire and
attain it, if possible; who could not un-
derstand that freedom was a compliment
to his quality, not an acknowledgment of
his personality; and who, in consequence,
misinterpreted mere courtesies in a sense
humiliating to the bestower.
Our life was necessarily so intimate,
my need of his good-will so great, and
my regard for his mother and sister so
warm, that I was bound to conceal my
annoyance; but at length he forced me
to a declaration, when, hoping that frank-
ness might avail me better than evasion,
I spoke so plainly that I left him in no
doubt as to the manner in which I re-
ceived his attentions. He resented it with
all the bitterness of a man unaccustomed
to rebuke, and my heart failed me as I
thought of the weeks I must pass in his
company.
This made me the more anxious to push
matters to a conclusion, and my opportu-
nity came one afternoon, when Ange-
lique snapped the end of her snow-shoe,
and was forced to return, leaving us to
finish our walk together.
We moved on in silence for some time
before I could summon up courage to
venture the question on which I felt so
much depended.
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“Have you decided on your return to
Louisbourg, monsieur?”
“I must first go to Quebec and report
to M. de Montcalm,” he began, in an or-
dinary voice, and then, to my surprise,
he suddenly broke into invective. “ We
have a new order here now; everything
must be reported to a quarter where
nothing is known of the needs of the
country or the character of the service.
If those idiots in Paris would only mind
matters in their own country and leave
Canada to those who know it best, if
they would send us troops and not gen-
erals, if they would send us money and
not priests, we should do better. What
can you expect of men who think of no-
thing but parade and their own precious
dignity? Who never speak of a Canadian
but with derision? But I forget. Ma-
dame is too recently from Paris herself
to take an interest in such matters; to
her, doubtless, we are all ‘colonists,’ and
M. de Montcalm is Pope and King.”
He stopped and faced me at his last
words, and though not unprepared for
some outburst, I was appalled at the
fierceness of his tone and the bitterness
he threw into his charge. Before I could
reply, he went on :
“ My sister has handed me the orders
which M. de Montcalm, Marquis de St.
V6ran, has been pleased to lay on my
mother and myself concerning you, but
she tells me nothing of your friends in
Louisbourg. May I ask whom you would
join there?”
“ M. de Sarennes, your mother and sis-
ter have treated me with a consideration
beyond words. They have subjected me
to uo questionings, to no inquiries, beyond
what I have chosen to reveal myself, and
surely I can look for the same courtesy
from you.”
“Oh, madame, madame, I am no court-
ier from Versailles. Your M. de Mont-
calm will probably tell you I am a mere
4 coureur des bois,’ and if that be the case,
you must lay it to my condition if I ask
again: Who is it you go to meet in Lou-
isbourg? Is it, by chance, Mme. de St.
Julhien?”
I remembered the Chevalier de St. J u-
lhien was Hugh’s colonel, and eagerly
caught at the opening, for I had begun to
be seriously frightened.
“Yes, monsieur, since you must know,
it is Mme. de St. Julhien.”
“Oh, ho! ho! NomdeCiel! But that
is a good one !” He roared like a peasant,
and I almost screamed in terror. “ That
is a good one! I have been in and out
of Louisbourg for the last ten years and
more, and I have yet to hear of a Mme.
de St. Julhien. Come, come, ma belle!
I’ll wager my head you are no more
Mme. de St. Just than I am. You
have been playing a pretty comedy to
these simple spectators, who were too
scrupulous to venture a question. It took
the barbarous coureur des bois to see
through the paint! There! There! Don’t
look so frightened. I can guess readily
enough what brings a pretty woman to
the walls of a garrison town.”
Oh, the shame, the miserable shame and
degradation which overwhelmed me at
the brutal insinuations of this well-born
clown ! and to crown it all, he stepped close
beside me, and before I had a suspicion of
his intent, he threw his arm about my
waist and kissed me.
“You wretch ! you cowardly hound !”
I cried, beside myself at this last insult.
“ How dare you treat me thus? I will ap-
peal to M. de Montcalm, and you shall
rue this day beyond any you have ever
lived. I will appeal to your mother — ”
“Oh, 1&, 1&, 1&, my charming little
Mme. Je-Ne-Sais-Quoi, you can complain
to M. de Montcalm when you see him.
As for my mother, I hardly imagine you
will dare to tell her anything which will
not excuse my action. But come, madame,
we are not gettingon with our conversa-
tion at all. Believe me, I am not a bad
fellow at bottom. Tell me who it is you
are really going to meet in Louisbourg,
and we shall see if it be not possible to
further your plans.”
“ Let me go, M. de Sarennes, let me go !”
I implored.
“Now, madame, let us talk sensibly.
Consider how awkward it may be if I
have to pursue these inquiries before oth-
ers. In any event. I can guess fairly well.
Let us see : Madame is an English woman ;
is well-born, wealthy, and, if she will not
resent my saying so, is of a certain age.
Good! Monsieur is an Englishman; well-
born, poor, and also of a suitable age.
Good! Monsieur is unfortunate in his
present position; is practically in exile.
Madame comes overseas alone, save for
a chance waiting- woman she picks up.
Why? Surely not for the delights of
travel. Monsieur’s name is le Chevalier
Maxwell de Kirkconnel. Madame’s name
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is — Ma foi ! I haven't the slightest idea
what it is. There! madame, have I not
drawn the outline of the comedy cleverly
enough, for a mere coureur des bois, a
mere Canadian?”
“ Let me go, monsieur, let me go!”
“ Tell me first, are you not Madame
de Maxwell?”
“Yes, yes,” I cried in desperation, eager
to seize any chance of escape.
“Then, madame, believe me, you were
very foolish not to say so at once. I
guessed it the very first night I saw you.
Now I know the Chevalier intimately;
in fact, I am under obligation to him for
much good advice; but I will confess he
has never seen fit to impart tome the fact
of his marriage, which will be a surprise
to many.”
“Oh, monsieur, I beg of you that you
will never mention it,” I cried in an agony
of shame and self-reproach.
“Never, madame; believe me, it was
too disappointing a piece of news in my
own case, for me to have any desire to
place others in the like unhappy position.
But allow me first to apologize for fright-
ening you; pardon me that I cannot look
upon it as an insult; and now that I have
made the amende honorable , I will go
back and answer your first question. I
shall start for Quebec in two days; I
shall be back in a week, and then leave
for Louisbourg at once, if you feel you
can trust yourself with me.”
I was so completely in his power that
I mustered up all my courage, and re-
plied, bravely enough: “ M. de Sarennes,
I cannot but believe I am safe in the
charge of one whom I know as so loving
a son, so fond a brother. I trust you, too,
as the friend of M. de Maxwell; and I trust
you most of all because you have learn-
ed my secret, aud being a gentleman, I
believe you will not betray it.”
“I don’t know how far I accept the
compliment, but at all events, madame, I
shall say nothing of your affairs. Re-
member, though, it rests chiefly with you
to prevent suspicion. You must keep the
same free intei*course with me, and never
allow my mother or sister to gather by
word or sign that the nature of our con-
ference to day has been otherwise than
pleasant. Now that we have come to an
understanding, no doubt some news of
Louisbourg will be welcome.”
As he spoke we turned back towards
the manor; his whole bearing so changed
in a moment that it was hard to believe
the bright, pleasant-spoken man by my
side was the same creature of rough,
brutal instincts and feelings who had
tortured and alarmed me so cruelly.
Little by little I recovered my composure
as he told of the life in the fortress, of
the probable investment by the English
in the spring— if they could then muster
a sufficient fleet — of M. de Drucour, of M.
Prevost, and best of all, of Hugh, though
he tried to disturb my peace by hinting
at some understanding between him and
Madame Prevost.
“ It all depends on you now, madame,”
he said, significantly, as he held the door
open for me to enter, and fortunately I
had firmness enough to control myself
through the long evening and until I
could gain my room.
There I broke down utterly, as I knelt
beside my bed, unable to rise, or to control
the sobs which shook my whole body.
Lucy was beside me in a moment.
“Dear heart! Dear heart! Let me
help you,” she murmured, raising me to
my feet, and beginning to undress me
like a child, crooning over me and quiet-
ing me with tender touches and gentle
words.
“ Oh, Lucy, speak to me, say something
to comfort me. I am the most unhappy
woman alive.”
“ My dear, dear mistress, no one can
be so unhappy that our Father cannot
comfort her. This is the time of all oth-
ers when He is nearest to you. You
have but to stretch forth your hand to
touch His robe; you have but to open
your heart to have Him come in and fill
it with the Peace which passeth under-
standing. I am an ignorant woman, but
I have this knowledge. I went through
a sorrow, and what I believed to be a dis-
grace, helpless and alone, and knew of no
comfort till He sent me His.
“I do not know your sorrow, I might
not understand it if you told me, but be-
side this bed is standing One who knew
what it was to be alone more than any
other, and He is saying to you, ‘Come,
and I will give you rest.’ ”
“ Dear Lucy, you are such a comfort to
me. I do not understand these things
in the way you do. I have never heard
them so spoken of; but oh! I feel so safe
while you speak!”
“Now, mistress, I will sing to you,”
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and she sang her sweet songs of comfort
in trouble, of deliverance in danger, of
love awaiting us, until my sorrow was
stilled and I fell asleep.
M. de Sarennes kept his word in so far
as further annoyance was concerned, but
he displayed a familiarity towards me
which called forth laughing comments
from Angelique, and kept me constantly
on the rack. At the end of the week he
left on his mission to Quebec, promising
to return within ten days, and charging
us to prepare for our long journey.
I was at my wits' end to know what to
do. I could not refuse to go with him,
no matter what my distrust. I could not
make any explanation to his mother or
sister which would not expose me to a
position I shuddered even to contemplate.
Would Charles, their idol, behave towards
any woman worthy of respect as he had
behaved to me? I was completely in his
power; no matter what he had done or
might do, he had but to appear and say,
“Come,” and I must follow, no matter
how my heart might fail me.
All too late I realized what I had
brought upon myself by my cowardly
evasion of le pere Jean's commands. I
had deceived myself, or, rather, I had pre-
tended to be led by outward chance in-
stead of honestly following our compact,
and now I was reaping my reward. That
this man was in love with me I could not
doubt, but it was a love that made me
sick to my very soul when I thought of
it. Yet he was a gentleman, by birth at
least; he was answerable to the General
for my safe-keeping; and no matter what
uneasiness or unquiet I might suffer on
the journey, he would not dare to offer
me any indignity with Lucy by me and
Hugh awaiting me at its end.
With this I was forced to be content,
and busied myself with Angelique and
Lucy in our preparations. Angelique
chattered merrily, regretting she could
not take the journey with us; her bro-
ther knew the woods as others knew the
town; he could tell every track, whether
of bird or beast; he was so cunning that
no storm surprised him, and so tender he
would care for us like children.
“No one is so good to women as
Charles; he never gets out of patience
with me or maman. Let me tell you,
you are a lucky girl, ‘Mademoiselle ’ Mar-
guerite, to have such a beau cavalier for
your escort. Really, I am jealous of
your opportunity; my brother is nearly
as fine a man as I am, and I am sure
any woman would be proud of my atten-
tions.” Thus she ran on, whilst I listened,
heart-sick at the thought of being in the
power of that brother, whom I knew far,
far better than she.
But my fortitude was not put to any test,
for on the very evening of M. de Sarenness
arrival Lucy fell ill of some violent fever,
and by the morning it was clear that our
departure was an impossibility.
“Never mind, madame,” said M. de
Sarennes, evidently not ill pleased; “I
can as well go to my post at Miramichi.
I have business there which will detain
me about a month; no doubt by that
time you will be ready to start.”
“Will you take a letter for Louis-
bourg?” I asked.
He laughed. “ You are like all Paris-
bred folk, madame! Miramichi is a good
hundred leagues from Louisbourg as the
crow flies, and more than twice that as a
man can travel. No, no, madame! You
must keep your letter until you can de-
liver it in person.”
He made a pretence of laughing heart-
ily at my discomfiture, and Angelique in-
nocently joined in, thinking the jest to be
my ignorance of the country, while my
heart was bursting with indignation that
he should thus make a mock of my help-
lessness, for he knew well what it meant
to me that Hugh should' be ignorant of
my whereabouts.
[to be continued.]
THE WORDS WE DO NOT SAY.
BY MAUTHA GILBERT DICKINSON.
DEEPER than chords that search the soul and die,
Mocking to ashes color's hot array, —
Closer than touch, — within our hearts they lie —
The words we do not say!
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A TRANSIENT.
BY ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON.
TI1WAS when I was keeping the Banks
J. House, over to Bentley Centre, more’n
thirty year ago. Mr. Harris had been dead
quite a spell, and I was running the house
alone, and doing well. Mother lived with
me, but she was too old to do much, and
feeble anyway. Twas the only tavern in
the Centre, and open all the year round,
but we didn’t have many folks except in
summer. But from the last of June ’way
into September I had a nice lot of summer
boarders every year, and we had a good
many transients, stopping over for din-
ner, and often all night too, with supper
and break f its t. There wasn’t much to
bring business people. You’ve been there,
haven’t you? It’s just a quiet little place,
but it's got the mountains all round it,
making it sightly and nice, and plenty of
green, cool, woodsy spots to walk or sit
iu. And that’s what summer boarders
like.
The transients was most generally folks
that was travelling for pleasure, through
the mountains and on their way to the
Gorge or back. Sometimes farmers come
along on their way to Westboro to ’tend
the county fair, or horse men for the
races, and then again there’d be a run-
ner or two travelling for some city store
or other.
But the transient you asked me to tell
you about — put up to it, as you said, by
Dr. Little— was another sort. The first
time I saw him — I remember it as well as
if twas last week — was the summer Mis’
Haskins’s folks boarded with me. You
know they're among the first families,
as to standing, in the State, and ’twas
a great thing for my house, and for the
whole town, for that matter, to have them
put up there. Mis’ Haskins wasn’t well
that year, and was dreadful nervous and
whimsy. So they thought they’d go to
some real quiet kind of place, instead of
a big hotel, as they'd generally done. She
was pretty hard to please, but I did my
best, and she got along well enough, con-
sidering.
But one day everything appeared to go
wrong, seem’ ’sif. There wasn’t any oth-
er boarders that time— ’twas toward the
last of Juue— but the Haskins folks and
the Sperrys from Derby. And they set
all together at meals to the long table
by the south windows, where ’twas light
and airy. There was twelve of ’em, five
each side and one to each end, and ’twould
have held sixteen comfortable. Well, that
day the whole party’d been out driving
in two wagons, over to the east village
and Wells Pond. They'd had dinner put
back to half past one, and ’twas all ready
when they come in. They'd called at
Miss Leonard’s on their way home, and
brought a young lady that was boarding
there, a friend of Miss Ellen Sperry’s,
back with them. I was in the kitchen,
dishing up, when I heerd ’em all troop-
ing in together to the table, and then the
chairs scraping as they pulled ’em out to
set down. Then I heerd a kind of loud
speaking out, and some talking back, and
a sort of fuss, and next moment Sarah
Willett, the table girl, came running out.
And she says, a little flustered, “Mis'
Haskins won’t set down and won’t let
nobody else set down, ’cause there’s too
many folks to the table.”
I knew she’d got it wrong some way,
for, as I said before, the table would ac-
commodate sixteen easy, and I went right
in. They was all standing up by their
chairs, looking real hungry and cross, and
Mis’ Haskins was talking in a kind of
scolding, upset way. “ No, I won’t do it,”
she says; “ it’s a-tempting Providence; it’s
as much as my life's worth. No, no, no!”
and she begun to sort of cry.
“ Why, what's the matter?” says I. u Is
anything wrong, Mis’ Haskins f* And
then two or three of them spoke up all to
once, and I got to understand that there
was thirteen to set at that table, and that
was bad luck. I don’t recollect that I'd
ever heerd of that sigu before, though I’ve
often read about it late years, and seen a
few folks that held by it. But it wasn’t
one of our sayings there in Bentley. Thir-
teen wasn’t any worse than any other
number there; a little better, maybe, for
it went by the name of a baker’s dozen,
and generally meant something thrown
in, which is always satisfying in this
world.
But I see at once ’twas a sign Mis’
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Haskins believed in, and that she was
terrible upset. But what in the world
could I do? They was all one party and
all hungry, and I couldn’t ask any one of
them to leave the table, and there wasn’t
another boarder in the house to call in.
I was at my wits’ end, and didn’t know
what I’d better do, when all of a sudden,
but very quiet, a man come into the door
that led out to the front hall and walked
right up to the table. He was an under-
size, hoinely-looking man, but he had a
real pleasant kind of face, a mite freckled,
and slick, tliinnish red hair — a perfect
stranger to me.
Everybody stopped talking directly,
and turned to look at him. He sort of
bowed to us all, and says, in a bashful
kind of way but real friendly, “Don’t
let me put you to any trouble,” he says;
“ I’m only a transient for dinner.” Well,
I never was so glad to see any one in all
my life. And all the folks was tickled to
death, and showed it. You’d have thought
he’d been a bit surprised at the way they
give him a welcome and made room for
him, but he took it as calm as you please,
and dropped right into the chair Sarah
Willett set for him, without a word.
Sarah said afterwards that he didn’t
hardly say anything through the meal,
but eat hearty, as if he enjoyed his vict-
uals. Only once when young Mr. Sperry
spoke to him direct and told him what a
fix he’d helped ’em out of, and how much
they was obleeged to him for happening
in, he says, “ Don’t speak of it; ’tain’t any-
thing,’’and went on with his dinner. I
meant to speak to him myself before he
got away, but I was kept by one thing
and another, and when I got into the
office at last, he’d gone. He paid his half-
dollar to Parker Smith, who was clerking
for us that season, and went off. “Did
he have a team,” I says to Parker, “or
was he afoot ?” And Parker didn’t know,
hadn’t took notice. Well, of course there
isn’t anything wonderful in that part of
the story. ’Twas lucky he happened along
just that minute, that’s all. And I never
should have thought of the man again
but for what come after.
’Twas two or three weeks after that, one
hot day in July, that I had the biggest
scare of my whole life, I believe. Some
ways or other I’d turned my ankle, and
’twas swelled up and stiff so’s I couldn’t
put my foot to the floor. I was up in my
bedroom, setting in my rocking-chair, with
my foot all wrapped up with cloths wet
with opedildoc and up on a cricket. All
the boarders was off one way or other, ex-
cept Mis’ Skinner. She was in her room
with Janie, her little girl. After a spell
she come over to my room with her bon-
net on and hold of Janie’s hand, and asked
me if she could leave the child therewith
me for a few minutes while she went over
to the post-office. “She don’t need any
looking after, Mis’ Harris,” she says.
“She’ll play round the room real good
and quiet, only I don’t exactly like to
leave her all alone.” I always liked chil-
dren, and Janie was a favorite of mine, so
of course I said let her stay. Well, she
trotted around and looked at my things
and played with her dolly. I was knit-
ting, hard at work on a new kind of bed-
spread with a real mixed-up pattern Miss
Lee had been learning me. I got to the
most ticklish place in it, where the holes
come in, and I was looking close at it and
saying over to myself, “ Put your thread
over and knit one, put your thread over
and narrer,knit three plain,” when I heerd
a little noise.
I looked up quick, recollecting the
child— oh, dear, dear, dear! My south
window was wide open, and there was
a morning- glory vine climbing up on
some strings just outside. There was
pink and blue and white flowers on it, all
shut up and twisted, of course, at that time
o’ day, but they looked bright and pretty
to Janie. So she’d climbed up in a chair
and tried to reach 'em. The chair’d tipped,
and she’d slipped out, and — oh ! there she
was hanging with her little white frock
catched on the thing the green blinds
fasten to.
Before the dress give way, before I
could holler out, before— oh, anything, I
see some one right in my room step up
quick behind the child, catch her up in
his arms, unhitch her frock, and put her
down on the carpet close up to me. For
a spell I didn’t think of anything but
Janie and her being safe and sound. I
kept stroking her yellow head as she
leaned it up agin’ my dress, and I felt
sort of sick and head-swimmy. Then I
heerd the door creak, and when I looked
up there was a man going out. He was
an under size, homely -looking man, with
a real pleasant freckly face and thin red-
dish hair, and I see he was the transient
that helped us out at the table that day I
was telling about. I called out to him
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to stop, and begun to pour it all out how
thankful and obleeged I was and all, but
he only says, very quiet, u Don’t speak of
it; 'tain’t anything,” he says. Then he
mumbles out sort of quick and bashful
something about how he was passing, and
see I needed a little help, and come in. I
couldn’t hear him very plain, and then he
was gone.
I couldn’t follow after him, ’count of
my lame foot, and he didn’t appear to
hear when I called out to him again. So
off he went without any more thanks
from me or anybody.
Well, that time I did ask a heap of ques-
tions about him, but nobody seemed to
know a thing. Folks had seen him com-
ing along the street, and Mary Willey see
him running like a streak through our
front gate and into the house that after-
noon. But nobody knew who he was, nor
which way he come from or went to.
I disremember just what was the next
time I saw him. Mebbe ’twas the day
Hiram Merrit’s cows broke into our corn-
field. There wasn’t any men folks about,
but Aleck Brace, a little fellow not more’n
twelve year old, was in the barn, and he
run out to see if he could drive ’em out.
I knew he couldn’t do it alone, and I was
just starting out myself, though my ankle
wasn't strong yet awhile, when I see the
cows was all running out o’ the field, and
there was a man helping Aleck drive
’em.
I didn’t get a chance to speak to the
boy till ’most night, and then I asked
him who it was helped him get the cows
out. He said ’twas a stranger to him,
a man that was going by and see the
trouble. Said he was a smallish man,
with slinky red hair and freckled as a
turkey egg, but a real friendly way with
him. I guessed in a minute ’twas that
transient again.
I don’t know but ’twas afore that, after
all, that he turned up just at the very
minute the keeping-room chimney got
afire. I was out myself, and there wasn’t
anybody downstairs but Sarah Willett
and old Aunty Mills that was turning
and sewing over the breadths of the car-
pet, and upstairs there wasn't any gentle-
men, only two or three of the ladies. I
heerd about it as I was coming up the
street, and I run home as fast as I
could.
But when I got there ’twas all out, and
Sarah was sweeping up the soot. She
Vm. XCVIII.— No 583 -13
said they’d had a dreadful scare, but just’s
they was ’most distracted somebody run
in and emptied a bag of salt on the fire —
’twas only a blaze of papers Sarah’d been
burning to get ’em out of the way— aud
it put it right out. Neither she nor Aunty
Mills had noticed who done it. But Park-
er Smith, the clerk, come in a spell after-
wards, and he says, “I see that sandy-
haired man just now, that was here to
dinner the day Mis’ Haskins had the
tantrums.” So I felt certain sure that
transient had helped me out again.
’Twas the queerest tiring. He never
went anywhere else, never give assistance
to any of the neighbors, and nobody knew
who or what he was. But he was always
and forever turning up in the very nick,
yes, the nickest of time, when f needed
help or got into any scrape or mess. They
wasn’t all big things he done, some was
little ; they wasn’t all solemn things, some
was real comical. Why, once I’d gone
over to Petersville with Mis’ Bryan to
have a pictur’ took of her baby. It was
fretty with its teeth, and wouldn’t look
pleasant, all the pictur’ man and the rest
of us could do. ’Twas getting late, and
I’d got to be home to make tea rusk for
supper. I was real nervous, but just theu
a man come in, or was in, for I didn’t see
him open the door. He stepped up in
front of the baby, just where the pictur’
thing couldn’t take him, and he begun to
move his hands up and down, and wiggle
his feet, and shake his head all covered
with smooth stringy red hair, and twist
his homely, freckled face in such a ridic’-
lous way that the baby, let alone the rest
of us, just laughed right out, and I’ve got
the pictur’ of it with the laugh all sot on
his little countenance. ’Course ’twas that
transient. But he wouldn’t stop to say a
single word, and was off before we could
thank him.
Another time I'd been out in the rain
and got wet, and I catched cold. I felt
sick all over, and that night I thought I’d
take some hot peppermint tea. I went to
the closet for the peppermint, and there
was the bottle all empty; not a single
drop left. Now if there’s a thing I pride
myself on, it’s my never being out of pep-
permint. It's the one thing that every
respectable family should keep in the
house. Aunt Nancy Bartlett used to say
that to be without peppermint in the
house overnight was temptin’ Providence,
and I guess she was about right. It's the
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one thing I know that’s hot and cold to
the same time. So, nat’rally, it's good for
folks that’s hot-blooded and feverish, and
for people that’s peaked and shivery. But
there I was without a drop in the house,
and late in the evening too. Just then
I thought I heerd a noise at the back of
the house.
I went to my bedroom window and
listened, but I couldn’t hear anything.
Pretty soon I felt sure there was steps in
the yard, and all of a sudden I recollected
I hadn’t bolted the side door. I took a
candle and run down stairs. I looked
about a little, and see there wa’n’t nothing
wrong; then I fastened the door and start-
ed to go up stairs. I don't know what
’twas made me turn round and look at
the cloflk that stood on a little shelf in
the entry. Just as I done it I see a bottle
standing there by the box of matches, and
I reached up and took hold of it. It was
a middlin’-size bottle, and ’twas brimful
of peppermint right up to the cork, as if
it had just come out of Deacon Hubbard’s
store.
Do you s’pose I didn’t know, just as well
as if I’d seen him, that ’twas that friendly
transient done that?
But I tell you there was another kind
of help that man fetched me once, and 1*11
never forget it to my dying day. I told
you mother was living with me then.
She was most eighty, and she failed up
fast that summer. The hot weather was
too much for her, and she grew weaker,
and one day in August — ’twas the 25th
— we see plain she was a -dying. Dr.
More had been and gone, saying she
wouldn’t last many hours, and there
wasn’t anything he could do. She hadn’t
sensed anything all day, and her eyes was
shut.
I was setting close beside her, and
Libby States, my niece-in-law, nigh by.
There wasn’t anybody else in the room.
All of a sudden I see mamove her lips as
if she was trying to speak, but she didn’t
open her eyes. I leaned over her and
says, “What is it, ma?” She sort of
whispers, “Sing ‘How — firm — a— foun-
dation,’’’and I knew she wanted her fa-
vorite hymn. Now I never could sing a
note in my life, hadn’t any ear or voice
or idee of tune, besides being all choky
with sorrow now. Libby was crying so
hard she couldn’t raise a note. I tried to
say the hymn over, instead of singing it,
but I see that didn’t satisfy ma. She'd
always been fond of music, sung in the
choir when she was young. Her poor
dry lips moved again, and she says.
“Sing, sing!” Oh dear, what wouldn’t
I’ve given to do what she wanted!
Just then I heerd a voice begin the old
hymn to the old tune, the very one ma
wanted.
The door was on a jar, and somebody
was singing outside in the entry. ’Twasn't
much of a voice; it flatted terribly, and
it cracked on every single high note, but
it satisfied mother. She sort of smiled,
and she kept her thin, wrinkled old hands
— is there anything on this whole earth
like your mother’s hands? — moving a lit-
tle on the sheet to keep time. The voice
went right through the whole hymn — a
real long one, you know; and just as it
come to*
44 He’ll never, no, never, no, never forsake,”
ma stopped moving her hands, and sort
of whispers, “Never — forsake — ” and
then, “Ann” (that's my name), and a
second after she says, very softly, “Na-
than,” and she was gone.
Nathan was my only brother, a little
fellow dead and buried twenty year be-
fore, but mother’d never forgot him. I
could just remember him — a cute, homely
little fellow, with sandy hair that never
would curl, and a pleasant little face
tanned and freckled with being out-
doors.
But ma thought there never was such a
child, said he was too good to live, always
doing things for folks, so helpful and self-
denying. She said he was always talk-
ing of how he was going to spend his
whole life just helping folks and getting
’em out of trouble, partic'lar his own
folks. He died, poor young one, when
he was nine year old; so he never had
much chance to show what a helper he
could be. But here was ma thinking of
him, and saying his name over the very
last thing.
I mustn’t make this story too long and
tire you all out, so I won’t tell you howl
felt to lose my mother, and the lonesome
time that come afterwards. I found out
what I’d felt pretty sure of all the time
— that ’twas my friend the transient that
had come in just the very minute he was
needed and sung that hymn for ma. I
didn’t see him myself, but Sarah Willett
met him on the stairs, and knew him
right away. I didn’t think of anything
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for a spell but mother and the last things
I could do for her. But after the funer-
al I begun to remember what a comfort
the hymn had been to her, and I was
bound to find out something about that
man.
But twasn’t any good, all my questions
and searching out. Nobody knew who
lie was, or’d ever had any talk with him,
though a lot of folks had seen him one
time or another, and always pretty close
to my house.
Twas a few weeks after that time, one
day in September, that Dr. More stopped
at my door in his buggy. He said he
was going to see a sick woman over to
North Bentley, and as he should have to
pass right by the Red Hill bury ing-ground,
where ma was, bethought maybe I’d like
to go out there with him. I was glad of
the chance, for I hadn’t been there since
the funeral, and I went up stairs to put on
my things. As I was hurrying, so’s not
to keep the doctor waiting, I thought to
myself that I wished I had some flow-
ers to put on mother’s grave. She was
a master hand for flowers, could always
make them grow and bloom. And she
set a great deal by the wild flowers round
Bentley, and knew ’em all apart. 44 It’s
just the time,” Isays to myself, 44 for blind
gentian that ma always liked so, and
the twisted-stalk, and everlastings. And
golden - rod and blue daisies is out a
plenty. But the doctor ’ll be in a hurry,
and I can t ask him to stop for me ter pick
any.”
I run down stairs and out to the buggy.
Just as I got in. Dr. More handed me a
big bunch of posies, and says: “Here’s
your flowers. I’m glad you had them
ready.”
■'Why, what in the world!” I says.
“ Where did these come from?”
I)r. More looked real surprised, and
says, Why, I thought you sent them
oui! A man fetched them here to me just
now. and says, * Here’s some flowers for
Mis’ Harris.’ ”
“ What man ?” I says.
“He was a stranger to me,” says the
doctor. 44 and I didn't take partic’lar notice
of him.”
But I knew who ’twas well enough.
There wasn't but one person on the whole
airth that would ’a’ happened along with
just them posies at just that minute.
Twas that transient again. I looked at
the flowers as we rode along. There was
blind gentians, purply blue, with their
green leaves a mite streaky and spotty.
Mother she was from Vermont, and she
called them dumb foxgloves. You know
what I mean — them flowers that’s always
buds and never open. And there was a
lot of twisted-stalk, the big kind that
comes late, with a spike of frosty-looking
white flowers that smell just the way a
peach pit tastes. And there was ever-
lastings and golden-rod and blue daisies
— all the things ma’d been fond of and I’d
been wishing for.
Well, then I just had to tell Dr. More
all about it. This last thing had some-
how stirred me all up, and I begun to
think there was something a good deal
out of the common about this man and
his doings. I was dreadful excited, and
I let the doctor have the whole story. I
told him all about it, all the things that
had happened to me, and all the times
this man had helped me out, and how I
couldn’t find out anything about him, and
couldn’t get a word with him, and nobody
could, and all that. But, some ways or
other, it didn’t seem to make much im-
pression on the doctor. He didn’t appear
to think ’twas no great of a myst’ry, no-
thing very amazing, after all. I guess I
didn’t tell it just right, mebbe. ’Tany rate,
he said things only’d happened so; he
dare say the man was all right, and we’d
find out all about him some time. Said
he was a respectable-looking man, and
pleasant spoken, and he’d surmised at first
he was some relative of mine that was
staying to my house. I suppose he meant
the man favored my family. He said
women folks was given to imaginings and
such. Dr. More was a single man, and
they said he’d been disappointed when lie
was young.
I disremember how long ’twas before I
see the man again, or whether I ever did
see him more’n once after that time. But,
anyways, I recollect the last time, and
everything that happened then, as well as
if 'twas last week. ’Twas in October, the
very beginning of the month. All my
boarders had been gone some time. I
was doing my own work, for I didn’t need
any help when I was alone, except Wells
Sanford for out-door chores. ’Twas af-
ter five o'clock one afternoon I see a
team drive up to my door and stop, and
there was a wagonful of folks come vis-
iting.
They was my relations from Danby, Con-
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sin Levi Bourne’s folks — him and his wife
and her mother, and Joshua and his wife
and little Abigail. They'd come to have
supper and spend the night. I was dread-
ful glad to see ’em, and made ’em real
welcome. I had plenty of things in the
house to do with, and I knew I could get
'em up a good supper in no time. But
who was going to wait on them at table
while I was cooking, frying their griddle-
cakes and all? ’Twas kind of chilly that
day, and I made ’em all set up to the
wood fire in the keeping-room, and I
went out to the kitchen to see what I
could do.
I set to work beating up biscuit and mak-
ing my batter for the cakes, and chopping
up the cold beef and potatoes for hash,
when I heerd a man’s step in the back
entry. Then some one come to the door
and looked in. ’Twas kind of dark, and I
couldn’t see at first, but I heerd a man’s
voice say, “Don’t put yourself out any,
Mis’ Harris; it’s only a transient for sup-
per,” and I knew in one minute ’twas
that man.
I was in such a hurry, and so nervy
and flustered, that somehow I didn’t think
of how I’d wanted to see him, and all I
wanted to say. But I just says, “ Deary
me, another for supper, and me with not
a soul in the house to help me!”
He come in real quiet, set his hat down
on the table, and says, very pleasant and
soft: “Let me help ye, Mis’ Harris. I’m
quite a hand to help, I am.”
And if you’ll believe me, before I could
say a word he set to work. He set the
table, getting out the crockery without
asking me a thing, going in and out very
quick and still, laying the napkins around,
and putting on the plates and knives and
forks. He fixed it real nice, but in a kind
of an old-fashioned way. When I went
in to take a look at it, I declare it looked
for all the world like my mother’s tea
table when I was a young one; all the
more because he'd used the old blue and
white crockery and some other odd dish-
es ma’d left to me. He helped me about
every single thing; he was real handy
for a man, and saved me lots of steps
and trouble. Pretty soon he says, still
just as easy and quiet: “ I suppose you’d
like to have me wait on table,” he says.
“I’m used to waitin’, and there ain’t
nothin’ I like so much as helpin’ folks to
things.”
I tell you I was pleased. Seems queer
now that I took it so easy and let a man
that had come for his own supper work
around so, but it seemed to come real
nat’ral then. Well, he waited on table,
and I never see any one do better, and so
they all said. Levi told me afterwards
that he waited on them more's if he was
a friend doing for ’em than like paid help.
He put a big book in one of the chairs for
little Abigail to set on, and he lifted her
up on it as if he was her pa, and pinned
her napkin round her neck just as nice.
Old Mis’ Fish, Levi’s wife’s mother, was
getting old and sort of childish, and when
lie passed the biscuit to her she looked up
at him, and she says: “How air ye, sir?
Your face is real familiar, but I disremem-
ber your name. How do you call your-
self?” she says. “You can call me Na-
than,” he says, very pleasant and soft.
I didn’t hear nor know anything about
it till they told me afterwards. He was
real attentive to the old lady, wrapping
her knit shawl around her every time it
slipped off, and picking up her specs when
she dropped ’em. They said he had a
real friendly way with him, urging ’em
to eat, pressing the victuals on ’em, and
doing a good deal more’n there was any
call for.
Bime-by they finished, and I heerd their
chairs scrape, and then they went into
the keeping-room again. I run in for
a minute to tell ’em I’d be ready pretty
soon to visit with 'em, and they begun
to ask me about the man that waited on
table. Levi said he thought first lie might
be a relation— he had a kind of family
look — and when he told ’em his name was
Nathan, he was pretty sure of it, because
that had been a great name among the
Bourneses for generations. But I told
him ’twa'n’t so; the man. was ’most a
stranger, and I didn’t even know till that
minute his name was Nathan. But I said
that bime-by I’d come in and tell ’em some-
thing remarkable about this transient and
the time I’d had with him.
Then I wTent back into the dining-
room. The man was there waiting for
me, though I’d been dreadful afraid he'd
go off in his aggravating wray before I
come back. He’d seemed real taken w ith
my old chiny, and he wTas standing by
the table with a piece of it in his hand.
’Twas a queer, old - fashioned thing — a
mug — sort of yellowish -white, with a
black pictur’ on it, and it had been my
little brother Nathan's; he'd always drunk
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his milk out of it. He set it down real
careful’s I come in; and I says: “Now
you and me, we must have our supper.
I ll run out and put the griddle on and
fry some hot cakes, and I’ll be back in a
jiffy. But first,” I says, “I must know
what to call you, for I ’ain’t an idee what
your name is.”
He says, kind of bashful like, “You
might call me Nathan.”
“But that's your first name, I sup-
pose. ” I says.
“Yes, ma'am,” he says, with a real
pleasant look on his face, “ that’s my very
first name.”
“And might I ask your last one,” I
says, “so's to call you by it?”
He waited a minute, and then he says,
“You wouldn't know any better if I was
to tell you; you wouldn’t understand it;
but Nathan's my first name.”
I thought that was kind of queer, but I
only said, “ Well, when I bring in your
supper we must have a little talk. For
you know well enough,” I says, smiling,
ami nodding my head at him, “that
there's a good many things to be gone
over betwixt you and me, and there’s a
sight of things I’m beholden to you for,
and never a chance before to say obleeged
to ye.”
* Tain’t worth speakingof, Mis’ Harris,”
he says, in his softly way. “ I was dread-
ful glad to help ye. There ain’t nothin’
I set by more'n helpin’ people, partic’lar
my own folks.”
' What did he mean by that?” I asks
myself, as I fried the griddle-cakes and
d rawed some fresh tea. “ I ain’t his folks
as I know; mebbe he means his fellow-
b»*in\s or his neighbors. I mean to ask
him.”
Biit I never done it. He was gone
when I went back into the dining-room,
and, sure's I live and breathe, from that
day to this I've never catched a sight of
that man — never, never, never. Nobody
see him go, but Levi heerd the side door
shut, and then steps going down the walk.
Ail my looking and asking and wonder-
ing and guessing come to nothing. All I
ever knew about him you know yourself
now.
Dr. Little, that told you to ask me about
it. hasn't been here long. He’s dreadful
interested in folks’ minds and heads— the
inside of 'em— and what they believe, and
why they believe it, and all that. They’ve
got some name for that sort, but I disre-
member it; but, ’tany rate, he’s one. He’s
made me tell him that story twenty times
if he has once, and be goes over ’n’ over it
with me. He uses pretty big words, but
I’ve got so I can follow him, after a fash-
ion. He’ll ask me what I really think
about it myself. Well, I tell him I don’t
know; sometimes I think one thing and
sometimes another, and then again I don’t
think anything at all. Then he asks me
if I ever thought that maybe this mail
was my little brother Nathan come back
in this form, and carrying out his idee
of helping folks. Yes, I bad thought of
it, and the doctor knew I had, and more’n
a little, too. But it don’t seem a satisfyin’
sort of the’ry. Seems ’s if folks, if they’re
let to come back at all, would come look-
in’ kind of different from us poor folks
that’s never bad their opportunities ;
they’d be more like angels or heavenly
bein's, appears to me. But this man
was just a real Bentley-lookin’ kind of
man, plain and homely, and dreadful
bashful.
Then, if ’t was Nathan, why, he’d growed
up. I wonder if they do grow up in that
place. This man seemed just about as old
as Nathan would have been if he’d lived.'
And he’d got the same idees as Nathan
about helping folks and getting ’em out
of trouble. And it was just me, his own
sister, he helped. But then it don’t stand
to reason that a soul would come back to
do such common kind of helping jobs as
making a baby look pleasant to have its
pictur’ took, or fetching peppermint, or
driving cows out of the corn, and all that.
To be sure, it might come down to sing
a favorite hymn to a dying woman, or to
save a little child’s life, but — no, I can’t
tell what I do think, and so I always tell
Dr. Little.
“But,” he says, in liis solemn, book-
word kind o’ way that I’ve got by heart
now — “ but, Mrs. Harris, do you consider
this visitant a supernat'ral being? Do
you call it a spirit or ghost?”
And I always answer, “ No, Dr. Little,
I don’t dast to say I hold that.”
“Well, then, my dear Mrs. Harris,” he
says again, “ what do you call this appa-
rition ?”
And I always answer, “Why, I just
call him a transient.”
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A BALLAD OF MANILA BAY.
Digitized by
BY CHARLES G D. ROBERTS.
YOUR threats how vain, Corregidor;
Your rampired batteries, feared no more;
Your frowning guard at Manila gate, —
When our Captain went before!
Lights out. Into the unknown glooqi
From the windy, glimmering, wide sea-room.
Challenging fate in that dark strait
We dared the hidden doom.
But the death in the deep awfoke not then ;
Mine and torpedo they spoke not then ;
From the heights that loomed on our passing line
The thunders broke not then.
Safe through the perilous dark we sped,
Quiet each ship as the quiet dead,
Till the guns of El Fraile roared — too late,
And the steel prows forged ahead.
Mute each ship as the mute-mouth grave,
A ghost leviathan cleaving the wave;
But deep in its heart the great lires throb,
The travailing engines rave.
The ponderous pistons urge like fate,
The red-throat furnaces roar elate,
And the sweating stokers stagger and swoon
In a heat more fierce than hate.
So through the dark we stole our way
Past the grim warders and into the bay,
Past Kalibuyo, and past Salinas, —
And came at the break of day
'Where strong Cavite stood to opp6se, —
Where, from a sheen of silver and rose,
A thronging of masts, a soaring of towers,
The beautiful city arose.
How fine and fair! But the shining air
With a thousand shattering thunders there
Flapped and reeled. For the fighting foe —
We had caught him in his lair.
Surprised, unready, his proud ships lay
Idly at anchor in Bakor Bay;—
Unread\% surprised, hut proudly bold.
Which was ever the Spaniard's way.
Then soon on his pride the dread doom fell,
Red doom,— for the ruin of shot and shell
Lit every vomiting, bursting hulk
With a crimson reek of hell.
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115
But to the brave though beaten, hail !
All hail to them that dare and fail!
To the dauntless boat that charged our fleet
And sank in the iron hail!
Manila Bay! Manila Bay!
How proud the song on our lips today!
A brave old song of the true and strong
And the will that has its way;
Of the blood that told in the days of Drake
When the fight was good for the fighting’s sake!
For the blood that fathered Farragut
Is the blood that fathered Blake;
And the pride of the blood will not be undone
While wars in the world and a fight to be won.
For the master now, as the master of old,
Is “the man behind the gun.”
The dominant blood that daunts the foe,
That laughs at odds, and leaps to the blow,—
It is Dewey’s glory to-day, as Nelson’s
A hundred years ago!
i
THE COMING FUSION OF EAST AND WEST.
BY ERNEST F. FENOLLOSA.
I. — WESTERN IGNORANCE OF THE
ULTIMATE ISSUE.
11HE character and meaning of the far,
. alien world we call the East have
merely pricked the curiosity of stray
scholars, or spurred the ambition of a
few adventurous merchants. Most of us
read of British diplomacy at Peking with
vague curiosity, as an echo from another
planet rather than as the crisis of modern
history. Of those who have lived in the
very theatre of the East, few were able to
discern the plot of the unfolding drama,
or attempt to warn their countrymen with
pen and speech. The prophet is yet heard
sneeringly who claims in Chinese culture
vital import for all that our common civ-
ilization holds dear.
In England this apathy has gone to the
point of paralyzing Anglo-Saxon will.
Able to interpret words, not men, writers
published the narrowness of their own
souls in such misstatements as that “there
is no vital human interest in Chinese and
Japanese history, literature, biography,
thought, and morals”; nothing that the
West has not already worked out to bet-
ter purpose; no new light thrown upon
the supreme subject — man. And yet, un-
der the blind eyes of these authorities, the
most wonderful experiments in practical
sociology were testing a unique flexibility
of faculty, and a race's devotion that could
be explained only from the concentration
into character of its ancient ideals. Where
should we study ideals but in the hearts
of living men, and not in the desiccated
imagination of mere linguists? And those
who, like the author, have known East-
ern peoples for years, face to face, in their
home life, their inmost aspiration, know
that the history and literature of these
races are alive to-day as a working force,
aglow with a romantic interest and an
illumination of humanity that almost ri-
val the records of ancient Greece.
But further danger has been lent to
popular ignorance by the endorsement of
certain English and American editors,
whose judgment a streak of jealous scep-
ticism seems to sour whenever they touch
the cosmopolitan value of Eastern races.
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116
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Of Japan, especially, they declare that the
recent progress is a farce, a veneer over
barbarism ; that her people are liars, con-
ceited, cruel, hungry to 44 wipe out” for-
eigners, and even to sweep Europe with
a “yellow inundation”; that there is no
family feeling among the Japanese, no
sweet home life, no true patriotism, but
a blind, habitual, animal loyalty; no
word for “love” in their language, no
chastity among their women, and no-
thing original in their thought and cult-
ure. Such cruel slanders have again
and again disgraced the pages of papers
like the Spectator and the Athenaeum ,
the latter of which goes on grossly to as-
sure us that the Japanese takes no true
delight in the peculiar beauties of his
landscape. Such slanders palsied Lord
Salisbury's hand after the Sliimonoseki
treaty, and again when Germany and
Russia tricked him into sharing their par-
tition of North China. Errors are crimes
when they contribute to their country’s
downfall.
But the last year has witnessed an un-
expected awakening on both sides of the
Atlantic. The forcing togethei;of the two
halves of our race by the Spanish war,
and the unfolding, if only for a glimpse,
of a common, unheard-of destiny in the
East, are like the very voice of Time sud-
denly made audible. Such changes come
quickly, when the world is ready to re-
veal its vast, silent preparations. It is
no accident, but an inevitable silting of
currents as wide as the seven seas. The
44 balance of power” in Europe, so firm,
that it paralyzed her boasted humanity
amid Armenian massacres and Turkish
triumphs, has split its little Continental
shell, and dispersed over the world wild
forces, like so many liberated gases, bat-
tling along lines of least resistance in
Africa and central Asia, until they con-
centrate their whirling, angry masses over
the focus of the China Sea. It is a dra-
ma more sudden and mighty than the
Macedonian’s transport of Greece to In-
dia. And if that former contact of East
and West resulted in a union of cultures,
from which sprang modern Europe, so
must this latter-day meeting issue in a
world- wide fusion, from which shall arise
a broader manhood.
But if our young consciousness is at
last to appropriate the East, we cannot
have the foundation of our responsibility
laid too deep. The crisis is too grave to
be led by selfish ambition. It must be no
conquest, but a fusion. We are not to
court Japan for the number of her battle-
ships, nor weigh China by the tonnage of
her imports; rather to challenge the East
soul to soul, as if in the sudden meeting
of two brothers parted since childhood.
It is primarily a test of ourselves, whether
we are capable of expanding local W estem
sympathy and culture to the area of hu-
manity. As clan-feeling merged into race-
life, and this into Christian empire; as the
discovery of America and India lifted feu-
dal Europe to the enthusiasm of world ad-
venture, universalizing the keen mind of
Elizabethan England, until it became the
mirror of all humanity in Shakespeare —
so to-day must we prove the absolute
value of Western thought and institutions
by their flexibility, by breaking through
their selfish nationalism, dropping all
mean sense of strangeness and jealousy,
and exhibiting a sympathy that shall
thrill to amalgamate with everything hu-
man, aspiring, and constructive in that
wonderful Eastern world. We cannot
shirk the responsibility if we would.
Whether we like it or not, our lot is
thrown with it, for good or ill, from now
on, and to all time . The test is mutual.
It is not merely that the West shall from
its own point of view tolerate the East,
nor the East the West; not even that the
West shall try to understand the East
from the Eastern point of view — but that
both, planting their faith in the divine
destinies of man, shall with co-operation
aim at a new world-type, rich in those
million possibilities of thought and
achievement that exclusion blindly stifles.
For this fusion is to be not only world-
wide, but final. The future historian will
look back upon our crisis as unique, the
most breathless in human annals. Here-
tofore race unions have existed for limit-
ed areas only— composite cultures whose
defects and abuses outlying types might
eventually rectify. Rome was regener-
ated by Teutonic character, and Hun tyr-
anny by Tartar freedom. But to-day each
of the pledged factors absorbs the power
and hope of a hemisphere. The Western
type of culture is marked, scarred, cast
into a hard mould for all Aryan peo-
ples; the Eastern is full, over ripe, de-
spairing of new expression in its worn-out
words. Each has exhausted the separate
fruitage of its seeds. If the union fail
now, the defect must be consanguineous to
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THE COMING FUSION OF EAST AND WEST.
117
the end ; for there is no new blood, no
outlying culture-germ for subsequent in-
fusion. Such as we make it now, it must
remain till the end. This is man’s final
experiment.
It follows that every available element
now carelessly discarded will be an eter-
nal loss. It is this fact that makes the
immediate study and preservation of the
East so important. Providentially has
this double factorial wealth been guarded
by the ages for a coming fusion. For it
is to be no one-sided household, this
world-marriage, whose troth was plighted
two thousand years ago. And though
bride and groom look strangely at each
other, it is only by a free and equal con-
tribution of their several talents that they
can meet the responsibility of all time.
II.— THE PROGRESS OF THE FUSION SINCE
THE OPENING OF JAPAN.
It was knowledge of this issue that
made residence in Japan between 1880
and 1890 of such romantic interest. In
her struggle with herself one saw an ad-
vance phase of the fusion worked out
under the eye. While Western journals
appraised her solely for her blind copying,
the crisis of her history was the effort to
preserve her own ideals. By 1887, when
the copying had culminated in the impor-
tation of Paris milliners, a revolution
was at hand. The West, mistaking this
intelligent attempt at self-development,
led by graduates of Western universities,
cried out, “ A conservative reaction I” Yet
it was no new thing. Japan’s yielding
to Commodore Perry was no miraculous
conversion to Western taste, but the con-
viction that fire must be fought with fire.
The very youth who rushed feverishly to
Europe studied ship building and cannon-
foundry to hold off the intruders. It was
not to revive Tokugawa anachronisms,
but to block equally antiquated Western
formalism. And though, for a moment,
the radicals did their best to ape our de-
fects, the Japanese patriots of 1850, 1890,
and to day, have seen clearly their unique
mission to preserve the Asiatic best, and
combine it with the European in a new
composite type worthy of becoming a
model for the world.
But the chief obstacle to Japan’s play-
ing her destined part was the West’s mis-
conception of her attitude toward China.
Our journals proclaimed deadly rivalry
between the two powers, Japan’s ambi-
Vol. XC VII I. —No. 583-14
tion, lust for Corean conquest, and delib-
erate expansion of army and navy to crush
the older empire. We credited her with
vulgar ambition only. This was a radi-
cal error. Her desire from the first was
for friendship and alliance. It was her
government’s stern resistance to the “Jin-
go” party— who wanted Corea in 1873—
that brought on the Satsuma rebellion of
1877. In 1879 General Grant gave both
China and Japan the advice embodied in
his famous Nikko conferences. I was
then living at Nikko, and had the privi-
lege of conversing with him on the sub-
ject. He frankly asserted that the East
was the theatre of coming events, in which
the only barrier to European spoliation
would be the union of the two nations.
From this policy I have personal know-
ledge that Japan has never swerved. On
two occasions, when Chinese pride had
pushed her to the brink of war, Count Ito
by personal persuasion averted the issue.
And at home, be it remembered, the so-
called “conservative reaction ” was eager-
ly reviving the study of Chinese history
and literature.
But the mistake of the West in this
matter was nothing to the fatality of Chi-
na’s. In spite of General Grant, she would
not believe in Japan’s disinterestedness,
nor in her denial of apostasy. The efforts
of Li were ultimately fruitless, the cabal
at Peking resisting all reform that might
expose their own corruption; and, after
twenty-five years of forbearance, Japan
had no alternative but to bring her big
bullying brother to his senses. She fought
the war solely to win China over to her
conservative policy. This can be proved
from every genuine record.
When the first terms of peace gave
Japan the right to regenerate China, I
clapped my hands and cried, “This is the
greatest news of the century !” Then came
that threat of European coalition, which
justified Japan’s worst fears. Then was
revealed that Germany and Russia had
already planned spoliation as a block to
Japanese reform, and that the exposure
of China’s weakness had but forced their
hand. Oh, then, if England had but
known the truth ! But the spitefulness
and jealousy of her merchants and jour-
nals denounced Japan as a robber, watch-
ed apathetically the real robbers throttle
her one available ally, and helped them
deceive their victim by encouraging her
corruption and backing her stubborn in-
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118
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
sanity, while they boasted to Europe of
themselves as the champions of Christian
culture, and vilified Japan as the savage
leader of a “yellow terror.” How Eng-
land could have been fooled by such su-
preme hypocrisy is beyond belief. It was
the opportunity of her career. A word
from her would have spurred the indig-
nant Japanese to resistance and China to
reform. We awaited it breathlessly, but
in vain. No! The Spectator looked
“ in alarm at an alliance with a 4 heathen
nation.'” Error and prejudice paralyzed
Anglo-Saxon will at the supreme crisis.
In 1896 I wrote: “Let us wake up be-
fore too late to the fact that little Japan
is arming herself to stand, like the Greeks
at Thermopylae, as champions, against
barbarians, of the widest human interests.
The supreme problem of preserving East-
ern factors for our world’s future type
has become, for the moment, a struggle
of military forces. If China has already
given Russia pledges that virtually un-
dermine her, the last hope is England.
She cannot afford to see Japan worsted
in a contest that will make the North
Pacific a Russian lake. The very gates
of India would tremble. It would be the
self-abdication of the Anglo-Saxon race.
For if there be a threat to civilization, it
is from the Muscovite. If, backed by
France, we give him the utter prestige
and wealth of Oriental expansion, then
indeed may we see such an invasion of
the West by Russian-led Asiatic hordes
as there will be no Martel to repulse.
The balance turns now with the British
navy. Its junction with the Japanese
can face any coalition of Russia’s Euro-
pean dupes. It will expose a gigantic
‘bluff.’ It will give England eternal su-
premacy in the East, the privilege of
sharing with Japan the reorganization of
the oldest, the richest, and, in some re-
spects, the most human empire of the
world.”
Thus writing and lecturing, I started
again for Japan. In passing from Suez
to Singapore it was most interesting to
collect the opinions of every Englishman
I could interrogate. Army officers in
Cairo, or bound for Bombay, were unan-
imous in asserting that the moment’s op-
portunity was a Japanese alliance. “We
will send her our ships,” cried Colonel
Martin, “and welcome one hundred thou-
sand of her soldiers as brothers in India!”
“It is the sole salvation of England
against Russia!” echoed a chorus of
bronzed majors. But as we neared Hong-
kong, and rallied civilians and tea-mer-
chants, the tune changed gradually to the
old deadly treaty-port whine. It was all
— “Poor China!” “That cocky little
bloodthirsty Japan!” In Nagasaki, Yo-
kohama, and Tokio even, I found the same
blatant ignorance, the very English res-
idents, whose future lay with Japan’s
success, siding with China.
A rapid investigation revealed where
the shoe pinched. There was a new fac
tor in the problem, namely, an extraor-
dinary advance in Japanese industry and
commerce. The land I revisited had
become a new world. Where, before,
poverty was grinding the farmer, green
moss disintegrating the mouldering ware-
houses, and the apathetic populace con-
tent with Tokugawa conveniences, now
two hundred great chimneys made the
new manufacturing centre of Osaka look
like Pittsburg, railroads checkered the
provinces, wages had risen, and the people
were everywhere adopting a higher stand-
ard of living. It would seem as if such
expansion must interest the alien resi-
dent; but, in fact, it destroyed some of
his old and unfortunate privileges. Jap-
anese agents now bought directly in
Western markets, new treaties were to do
away with extra -territoriality, and the
prestige of the foreign merchant as the
haughty master of a superior and dis-
dainful race was at an end.
It was clear that a new and powerful
factor had entered into the Eastern prob-
lem, namely, the industrial. There was
more than a diplomatic storm-centre at
the scene of the Chinese war. It was
the rise of Eastern manufacturers and
commerce to world importance. In re-
spect of these, at least, China was follow-
ing in Japan’s footsteps. Cotton-facto-
ries were rising, like mushrooms, at the
mouth of the Yang-tse, Shanghai was al-
ready a metropolis, and the opening up
of a fabulous interior trembled in the
balance of negotiations. The supreme
truth that China’s wealth would form the
core of the world’s coming commerce, and
that its controller would control that
world, had dawned upon Germany, Rus-
sia, and Japan, but left England napping
in self-content with outgrown methods.
The fusion was not to be postponed to a
coming century, but fought out in the
immediate struggle for China’s markets.
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THE COMING FUSION OF EAST AND WEST.
119
Such was the situation up to the close
of 1897. While the London Times flat-
tered itself with ten years of reprieve, for
Russia to build her transcontinental rail-
way, the latter moved to the attack in
swift secrecy. Germany, squeezed be-
tween France aud Russia, and repelled
by England’s impotent coldness, had no
choice but to join the conspirators. In
vain did patriots and specialists like Col-
quhoun thunder their warnings after the
“mailed-fist” episode; while secretaries
ran about wonderiug if Russia's seizure of
Port Arthur were a counter-stroke to Ger-
many's of Kiao-Chau. He exposed the
triple alliance to dismember China, de-
nounced the meanness and folly of leav-
ing Japan to tight England's battles, and
laid the break-down of her diplomacy, as
in 1895, to her fatal ignorance and in-
aptitude. Even our own conservative
Nation ventured this in January: “The
British naval force in the Eastern seas is
so much greater than that of any other
power, especially if supported by Japan,
that a determined man at the Foreign
Office can really do whatever he pleases.”
But the man was not there.
Theu came the bitter fiasco of March,
whose imbecility England will regret
long after she has forgotten the idiocy of
George III. Russia had issued her Port
Arthur ultimatum, demanding reply by
the 17th. On the 11th London merchants
wore rubbing their eyes and memorial-
izing the government. China, in her
last agony, appealed to Lord Salisbury.
Japan awaited the decisive word. It
would have baffled Russia's game once
and forever. But Salisbury was content
to beg guarantee that England might
share in Port Arthur's commerce! And
this when St. Petersburg was undermin-
ing Peking! On the 17th China yielded;
and on the 19th came England's protest,
but too late! So the “crime of a cen-
tury” was committed. No subsequent
concessions England has wrested can
atone for the error. They are but join-
ing the Russo-German game of grab. In
thus playing Russia's hand against Ja-
pan, England violated the hope of civili-
zation, and the sacred trust of maintain-
ing her share in it.
Through those anxious and fatal days
how we Americans in Japan deprecated
tiie traditional policy of our own free
land that held her aloof from all foreign
responsibilities, when the cause of civil-
ization, and of freedom itself, was jeop-
arded by England's cowardice! How
dared we hide behind a selfish fear of
European entanglement, while the world
was ranging her power in hostile ranks
to battle for her ultimate issue? Here
was a planet’s domination to be shared,
a neighbor of four hundred millions to
regenerate, a commerce to be wiped out
or fought for that had grown fifty per
cent, in a single year! Yet, as England
was tearing her hair over a few naked
Africans, so we had just enough philan-
thropy to weep for a handful of starving
Cubans. It was a strange sight, these
two little innocent Anglo-Saxon babes,
smiling in the cradle of their virtue, at
the robbery of a world !
Who could have foreseen the sudden
revolution that has dazed ourselves in
dazing Europe — the old bitter dislike be-
tween Anglo-Saxon brethren melted as
wax, and the distrust of both for Oriental
faith shattered like the “veneer” we
thought it? Our strange war with Spain
was a trumpet blast in our ears. It re-
awakened our ideality. It reveals the un-
generous mistake of “anti-imperialists,”
that our responsibility can possibly end
with ourselves. To relinquish the Philip-
pines on pain of “ land-grabbing ” is like
refusing to disarm a ruffian for fear he
may accuse us of stealing his knife. The
entrance of America into the issue is a
glorious pledge of its success.
III.— THE FACTORS OF THE IMMEDIATE
FUSION.
Such is the problem and its recent his-
tory. Let us look at its present chances
for solution. The pivot on which they
turn is Japan. Her calm independence
is phenomenal. She awaits England’s
decision with a half distrust, that the lat-
ter's credulity, unfortunately, warrants.
To-day she is willing to join an Anglo-
Saxon alliance. Her journals politely
advise us to retain the Philippines. But
they hint, also, that the weak vacillation
of our race may try her patience too
long. Meanwhile she goes on promul-
gating new treaties, codes, and tariffs,
preparing to enter on terms of equality
the status of her possible allies. She is
reforming her system of education, and
straining every term of the treaties to
accommodate the introduction of foreign
capital. It is utterly impossible in the
future that she should swerve into an
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
unfeosmopolitan course. On the other
hand, her responsibility to mediate in
China’s coming enlightenment has led
to new and more hopeful zeal. Perhaps
it was well that Japau could not essay to
be China’s savior while her armies were
at the gates of the Gulf. Her subsequent
campaign has been one of peaceful per-
suasion. Her representatives at Peking
are selected for their sympathy with the
mother civilization. Japanese journal-
ists, merchants, and savants have pene-
trated every explorable nook from the
borders of Thibet to Tongking, and to-
day their greatest veteran statesman,
Marquis Ito, temporarily relieved of his
premiership, departs on a semi - private
mission to China, where his life-long
sympathy, his friendship with Li Hung-
Chang, and his representation of people
ready to shed the last drop of their blood
for Chinese independence, will work mar-
vels of mutual understanding.
But the key to the situation is that
China has already waked. The rash
coups of Germany and Russia have rude-
ly shaken her into her senses. She sees
now that Japan was right and sincere.
Her revolution is coming as rapidly as
did the former’s forty years ago. She is
authorizing railroads and other capitali-
zation all over her dominions; reorganiz-
ing army and navy; changing, by practi-
cal standards, the very key of her intellect,
her vast system of education that cul-
minates in the civil-service examinations;
and, most wonderful of all, remodelling
her court etiquette, in its seclusion and
its treatment of foreign representatives.
Such reforms are coincident with the
waning influence of that coterie of self-
ish mandarins who have intrigued with
Russia. The mass of the people is rising
in intelligent clamor against the old dead-
ly abuses. But the most striking feature
of this movement is China’s recognition
of Japan’s right and ability to lead it.
As we predicted years ago, the gallant
islanders are the only possible mediators
between Asiatic thought and the thought
of the West. It is not to despoil Chinese
ideals that Japan comes and is welcomed,
but to strengthen them. To-day China
is buying up large numbers of Japanese
text-books and translations of European
literature, employing Japanese in many
of her offices, and sending one hundred
and fifty selected students not to Europe,
but to the care of the Tokio government
for education in Japanese universities.
What this means to the world is in-
calculable. It introduces a fourth phase
of the long-predicted fusion. Let no for-
eign ambition, however generous, reckon
without this accomplished union between
the two great Oriental races. It gives
the East an independent policy and
sphere of action. In either of the three
phases of the fusion — diplomatic, indus-
trial, and spiritual — it guarantees that it
shall be fusion, and not conquest. As for
the first, this Eastern union may not be
strong enough to fight either Russia or
England, but it will be the better able to
dictate equal terms to whichever may
claim its eventual alliance. Unquestion-
ably it prefers the Anglo Saxon, whose
policy is the guarantee of political integ-
rity and of industrial freedom. But if
it be forced to throw in its lot with Rus-
sia, or the one strong power of the world
willing to fight for her claim, it may
hope yet to save something Oriental from
ruthless destruction. From the point of
view of Anglo-Saxon interest, too, this
union is most significant. So long as
China and Japan were misconceived to
be enemies, there was small chance to
do aught but thunder from battle ships.
But now the Japanese alliance means
Chinese friendship also, and is an indis-
pensable condition thereto. The fruit
hangs ripe, ready to drop into our hands,
if we have the “nerve” to seize it. One
joint word from England and America
can wipe out the mortal mistake of Kiao-
Chau and Port Arthur by a forceful res-
titution of these and other booty to China.
Doubtless it would mean a thorough re-
organization of China’s government and
defences under Anglo-Saxon and Japan-
ese supervision ; but who could wish for
a more generous opportunity for supreme
influence in the greatest cause of history?
As for the second phase of the fusion,
the industrial, the outlook is still more
dazzling. Do what it will, the Orien-
tal alliance cannot supply the needed
capital, nor can it afford to mortgage its
future to a diplomatic enemy. On the
other hand, when the very thing the
West fights for is markets, how futile to
exploit barren continents when the em-
pire of the world but waits a magic word
to produce splendors of which Rome nev-
er dreamed ! Wealth is the key to world
control ; and while England looks sleepily
for an indefinite continuation of Chinese
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE COMING FUSION OF EAST AND WEST.
121
trade as a “fair” item in her teeming
ledgers, Russia grabs for that golden key
where it is really hidden — in the capital-
ization of Chinese industry. Let not
timid English and American monopolists
shrink from the prospect of rivalry in
Chinese manufactures. Whether we like
them or not, there is no possibility of
suppressing them. The sole problem is
whether the Russian or the Anglo-Saxon
shall own them. The fact to face is that,
in China's resources of raw materials, me-
tal ic wealth, fuel, water transportation,
and a solid averdupois in labor that over-
weights the combined world, Great Brit-
ain and the United States will be out-
classed. Would Manchester and Phila-
delphia rather brave Russian competition
than control with their own capital that
imperial realm to be had for the asking?
If so, the Anglo-Saxon deserves to pass
from the world, as he will. But if we do
not realize the imminence of the crisis
too late, there is hope. With his superb
business methods, joined to Japanese apti-
tude, before the end of the next century
Shanghai should become the metropolis
of the globe, with a commerce rivalling
New York’s and London’s. For the con-
suming capacity of four hundred mill-
ions, with standards raised by their own
energies, implies an industrial demand
barely conceivable. We must be imbe-
ciles if there remain not room for our
own energies at both ends of the trade.
If America reject this opportunity, she
will have no alternative but to erect a
barrier of tariffs and navies so enormous
as to render her an industrial island of
the type of mediaeval Japan.
The situation is a new one, unlike that
of India, Siam, Java, and Central Africa
in this important respect— that the lati-
tude of China allows permanent Euro-
pean residence. England has sacrificed
her generations to control the former re-
gions, where there can be no true fusion
of blood or personal influence. The hand-
ful of bleaching foreigners always re-
mains exotic, whose stock must be per-
petually recruited. But in China and
Japan nothing can prevent us from com-
ing to inhabit the soil, and mixing our
lives and our thoughts with its destiny.
As saviors, organizers, and fellow-labor-
ers wTe shall be welcomed with every
privilege. Not only our capital, but our-
selves bodily — our families, our homes,
our ideals — shall be transplanted freely
to those genial climes. Already Japan,
under the new treaties, is becoming a
residence-garden for the world’s leisure.
China, with coming conditions, shall be
the workshop for its energies.
In this fact lies a guarantee for the
third and most important phase of the fu-
sion—that of true civilization, its culture.
If war and markets were not culture's
pioneers, they would offer us but a shal-
low ambition. We must refuse to be
dazzled. If we aim only at a stupendous
glut of luxury, the empire we build will
be but short-lived, rotting of its own dou-
ble abuses. It is only the conservation
and expansion of the world’s choicest
ideals that can justify and save it. All,
of any source, that can thrill, free, and
beautify human aspiration must be nur-
tured by its conscientious teaching. It
is how types of manhood will fuse that
challenges our anxiety. If co- living
strengthen not the twofold morality, it
will be a failure. Here also is infinite
fuel to rekindle the world’s imagination.
Would some challenge this claim that
the East has aught to offer, out of her
soul, worthy of our acceptance? I rest
my final plea for fusion upon its asser-
tion. Apart from war and trade, West-
ern methods halt unsatisfied. For thirty
years we have created very little, but
asked many questions. An age of scepti-
cism is like a fallow year for soil. In
this union with the East, if ever, shall
our questions be answered. I claim that
the Chinese intellect is, on the whole, the
equal of our own, defective in places,
doubtless, as perhaps is ours, but capable,
with our help, to bear the strain of equal
responsibility. We shall find that it has
won some advance stations in fields where
our experience is yet raw. We shall re-
gain in this East magnificent enthusiasm
long grown cold, living ideals that shall
lend wings to our own. There is hardly
a mooted topic — art, literature, philoso-
phy, morals, manners, family organiza-
tion—that shall not find its parallax of
computation wonderfully enlarged. We
shall gain power for wider application of
our own most sacred convictions, for we
shall loosen the universal in our own ex-
periences from its accidental accretions.
This prophecy, which is based upon a
lifetime of first-hand study, might be en-
larged upon, but here I have space for
only one summary assertion of mutual
benefit. If we compare the two civiliza-
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
122
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
tions in their best types, we shall find that,
while the strength of the Western has
tended to lie in a knowledge of means ,
the strength of the Eastern has tended to
lie in a knowledge of ends. This division
goes to the bottom of values. If there be
anywhere in human reach such absolute
values as ends, the value of the longest
and strongest chain of means is but rela-
tive— a reflection of the former. To mis-'
take the means themselves for ends is to
imprison a giant in the toils of his tread-
mill. It is the defect of our political
economy that it looks little beyond accu-
mulation. Few of our millionaires have
the least conception how worthily to spend
the enormous powers they control. This
is one danger of our culture— that it tends
to deify forces. If it assumes an end at
all, it is but the vague outcome of an in-
finite series; it allows us to cultivate no
garden-patches in our desert of mortal ef-
fort. This is the Puritan extreme. The
other danger is our tendency to* react
toward personal pleasure as an end — our
sole relief from the chain of nature's
means. This is the Epicurean extreme.
Between the two a large, dark, almost in-
visible, region lies, which holds concealed
the great wealth of normal human ends
—not a mere attenuated faith, nor a post-
poned heaven, but a rational measure
of absolute fruitage here and now, while
the stem still grows with the working sea-
sons. Who has yet explored this noblest
science of ends? Western consciousness
almost ignores it; but to this it will be
found that the East has some of its most
precious discoveries to contribute.
If this be true, it is necessary to regard
the fusion of East and West as indeed
a sacred issue for which Time has waited.
Each was doomed to failure in its isola-
tion. Means without ends are blind;
ends without means paralyzed. But each
has the privilege to supply what the other
lacks. The union of means and ends
must vitalize every seed that man has
sown. In this light the wrecks of history
become prophecies. The aims that with-
ered and the forces that rotted were not
waste, but a proof of their mutual need.
The races that shall realize the ideal and
idealize the real shall be the culmination
of humanity. On the Eastern side per-
haps the worthiest candidate is the Chi-
nese, for they alone are both idealists and
practical. Their chief defect is that their
practice needs to be instructed and led by
ours. But, on the Western side, who is
worthy to lead this world's final crusade?
We cannot trust France, Germany, or
Russia to be true to the issue; they are
constitutionally incapable. Of all races
the French have, perhaps, the least sym-
pathy with others. The dominance of
their type in Cairo and Anam but stim-
ulates the worst of native vices. The
others are equally committed to a policy
of destruction. If wealth itself were an
end, it might be as well for them as for us
to pamper themselves with its nauseating
excess. But could they, if they would,
do more, live more, yearn more, learn
more, restraip more, than we? Either
one of us can cast cannon or manage an
oil trust. But who has preserved alive
rich germs of individual character and
free social institutions? Who is most
tolerant, most humanitarian in his con-
servatism? Not Germany. There is a
servility of tradition, a formalism in her
spirit, a mechanical quality in her very
intellect that unfit her for the charge.
As for Russia, I do not know any guar-
antee of manhood in her local institu-
tions, any generous aspiration in her per-
sonal, family, and social consciousness.
If it be, then, that the responsibility
rests upon the Anglo-Saxon race, let us
accept it in fear, prayer, and resolution.
It alone can conceive of a fine balance
between society and the individual, of a
universal federation and arbitration, that
shall sound the victory over war.
And now, a last word to Americans.
We have awaked; let us awake enough!
But last night we were narrow as Tudor
feudatories, content with our local issues,
our private curse of slavery, intent to
erect a little island of silver coinage. How
could we unify our scattered aims with
no centrality of focus on the needs of a
common humanity? This morning we
have waked to find ourselves citizens of
a new world, full of Drakes, and Sydneys,
and Philips, and Armadas; rich iu im-
measurable colonies, investments, ad vent-
ures; of an unlimited mind-expansion;
of a race-sympathy new in human an-
nals. Columbus and his discovery are
but a four-century-old stepping-stone to
it; for we were obstacles in his western
path that had to be first mastered. To-
day we enter literally into his dream,
and carry the Aryan banner of his cara-
vels where he aimed to plant it— on the
heights of an awakened East.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE RESCUE OF THE “ WINSLOW.”
BY LIEUTENANT ERNEST E. MEAD, U.S.K.C.S., NAVIGATING OFFICER OF THE “HUDSON"
THE engagement between the Amer-
ican vessels and Spanish guu boats
off Cardenas, May 11, 1898, in no way
quickened or retarded the natural out-
come of hostilities; but to us it was the
most sanguine naval action of the war,
and it showed one phase of that reck-
less daring and cool effrontery displayed
by American soldiers and sailors.
The town of Cardenas is on the south
shore of the very shallow bay of the same
name. Access to the bay from the north
is obtained by a number of shallow and
tortuous channels between the keys which
form its northern and eastern boundaries.
It is about nine miles across the bay from
north to south. Four miles north of the
main channel, Piedras and Mono keys
form a partly sheltered anchorage, which
we occupied during the day.
In the shallow waters inside the inner
keys, safe from our heavy- draught ves-
sels, the Spanish gunboats kept up an
activity at once a threat and a challenge
to the blockaders. Two or three times a
day one or more of them would stand
boldly out from the shallows until almost
in range, and, after a long circle of inspec-
tion, steam slowly back to their shelter.
American blood could not stand such
insulting actions, so one morning the
torpedo-boat Foote made a dash at them,
only to find that these Spaniards shot
better than the average, and that three or
four to one was too great odds. It was
therefore determined to await the arrival
of some of our light-draught gunboats.
Early on the morning of May 11 the
Machias and Hudson , cruising off the
keys, made out a strange smoke, to which
they gave chase. The stranger was found
to be the gunboat Wilmington. The Ma-
chias, which was commanded by the sen-
ior officer of those present, hoisting the
signal, “Follow the motions of this ves-
sel,” led the way in, by the outer anchor-
age, to an anchorage close up to Diana
Key. Here, shortly before nine o’clock
in the morning, the Machias and Wil-
mington anchored, and, as it was known
that the main ship-channel was mined,
the Hudson was sent to explore a partly
obstructed passage to the eastward of Di-
ana Key. For over an hour the Hudson
quartered the ground, sounding out a tor-
tuous and almost impracticable channel.
On her return to the squadron, which
had meanwhile been augmented by the
torpedo boat Winslow, the Hudson was
directed to accompany the Winslow and
take soundings in Surjidero Pass, while
the Wilmington shifted her anchorage
somewhat to the eastward to cover oper-
ations. After a rapid survey of the chan-
nel, the Cuban pilot, who was at this time
on the Winslow directing operations, de-
cided that this was the best entrance.
On the strength of this report, the
Wilmington , after the Cuban pilot had
been transferred to her, weighed anchor.
Shortly before noon the American squad-
ron, consisting of the Wilmington, Wins-
low, and Hudson, steamed into Cardenas
Bay in search of the Spanish gunboats.
Preceded by the smaller vessels, the
Wilmington picked her way slowly
through the channel into the bay. Here
she took the lead, and, with the Hudson
on her starboard and the Winslow on her
port quarter, well clear of her guns, pro-
ceeded toward Cardenas.
The day was of the lifeless kind, when
the water looks malarious in its sleek still-
ness, and the air, in its quiet thickness,
refuses to be seen through, even when
attacked with the best of glasses. When
about half-way across the bay, the Hud-
son was ordered to skirt the then invisible
western shore, and attack and destroy,
capture or drive in, any gunboats which
might be hidden close under the land.
We were but fairly started when the
sound of guns to the north caused our
hearts to give a wild throb of joy. We
took it to mean that an attempt to escape
had been foiled by the Machias, and that
on being driven back the enemy must
fall an easy prey to the Hudson . What
we heard was in reality the Machias
shelling Diana Key previous to the land-
ing of the party which raised the first
American flag over Cuban soil. Proceed-
ing at full speed on our way across the
bay, the Hudson soon passed the buoys
of the main ship channel; and then, see-
ing nothing of the expected gunboats in
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124
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
retreat, we turned and followed the gen-
eral curve of the shore toward the town.
The officers searched, with their glasses,
every little bay and creek in hopes of
seeing a concealed gunboat. This profit-
less search was soon finished, and glasses
aud vessel were turned toward Cardenas,
which the Wilmington , followed closely
by the Winslow , was rapidly nearing.
The appearance of the town and sur-
rounding country matched that of the sea
and sky for haziness, laziness, and absolute
quiet. Three or four good sized stone
wharves, covered with well-built store-
houses, and a dozen wooden wharves, com-
pleted the water-front. Back of this, tow-
ard the hills, extended the town, very
nearly in the form of a rectangle, and
with sharply defined limits. To the west-
ward, from the mangroves at the water’s
edge to the foot-hills, was a tangle of cane-
brake. More elevated and less thickly
wooded country, thinly dotted with coun-
try houses, bounded the eastern side of
the town; and on an elevation near the
shore, about a mile and a half from the
town, was the large, strongly built struc-
ture supposed to be the barracks. The
wharves at the western end of the water-
front wTere almost hidden by a cloud of
little fishing-smacks and coasting-schoon-
ers, moored two and three tiers deep.
Prominent among them was a beauti-
ful little white steamer, which caused us
to puff with premature pride at the vision
of towing her into Key West. More than
a mile off the western end of the town,
where the water was deep enough, were
anchored two square-rigged vessels, show-
ing no colors, and without a soul on
board. Toward these the Wilmington
was heading. Moving so slowly as to
make scarcely a ripple, she steamed down
close to them, and then changing her
course to the eastward, ranged along par-
allel to the shore, about two miles distant
from it. As there was still no sign of
resistance, the Winslow closed in with the
intention of drawing the Spanish gun-
boats from their hiding-places and in-
ducing them to give battle in the open.
Bravely she glided in, feeling her way as
the water rapidly shoaled, until little'more
than half a mile from the wharves.
Then, from behind the corner of one of
the piers, came a flash, followed by a faint
puff of vapor, and a shell screamed past
her. Before the Winslow could turn,
from three or four other places came the
smokeless flash, and again, and with great-
er precision, the destructive projectiles.
The Hudson was making her best speed
to rejoin the squadron, and had still about
four miles to go when those on board saw
the flashes of the guns on shore. Before
the report of the first gun had reached us,
the Wilmington belched forth a sheet of
flame. The clouds of smoke rising from
it proclaimed that the fight had begun.
Following at full speed, as closely as
possible in the wake of the other vessels,
the Hudson , about ten minutes after the
Wilmington opened fire, passed between
the two sailing-vessels anchored off the
western end of the town, and being then
in range, opened fire with her bow gun.
The dense smoke around the flag-ship
made it impossible to read the signals, so
the Hudson hauled up more to the east-
ward, thus bringing her after- gun also
to bear, and ran down to within hailing
distance of the Wilmington . Receiving
orders to go in closer, we rounded the
bow of the Wilmington , and moving in
to about three thousand yards of the
shore, turned to the westward, keeping
up a constant fire on the largest wharf.
The smoke from our guns was so thick
that the shore was often hidden, but a
few hundred yards inshore, and some-
what to the east, an occasional glimpse
was caught of the gallant little Winslow
banging away with her 1-pounders.
Except for the flashes on shore, those
on the Hudson would not have known
there was an enemy. I do not think a
shot was fired at us during the first twen-
ty minutes of the action, and the noise
of our guns dominated all other sounds.
It was well indeed for the Spanish gun-
boats that they had the friendly shelter
of the solid wharves behind which they
were concealed, for in the open they
could not have lived five minutes in the
face of the Wilmington's terrific fire.
With the intention of escaping as much
as possible from the dense clouds of
smoke that were drifting from the Wil-
mington toward the shore, the Hudson
now went well down to the western end
of the town, and there manoeuvred so as
to keep both guns bearing. The sharp
cracking explosion of the 6-pounders put
an edge to the roar of the heavier guns,
sounding often as one report. Each con-
cussion of our little guns shook the Hud-
son from stem to stern, while to those
serving them it was like a box on the ears.
Digitized by
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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HARPER S KEW MOW t MAGAZINE.
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Original ftcr
THE MARTYRS’ IDYL.
131
Though over a few leagues of upland grass!
Why hast Thou laid on me magic of pain,
God unrevealed? Was I drawn from sleep,
Man’s duty, body’s health, to be mere wind,
Wind undirected over fallow wastes?
What woulilst Thou ask of me, no sword of
Thine,
No aik of service? Yet aware of Thee
I am, and shall be. All my thought, out-
spread,
Is open unto Thee: a lonely bench
Where the wide sobbing surf ebbs every-
where.
And, hard upon each moon-encolored wave,
Flutters the wavy line of drying sand
Back to the verge: the white line, shadow-
quick.
Thrilling there in the dark: an earthen gleam,
Vain huntress of the sea. Suffer me now
To follow and attain Thee, fugitive,
And be my rest, who hast, ray whole life
long.
Been mine unrest: implored, immortal Love!
A Child enters , with a reed , wearing a wreath
of thorns in his hair.
The Child. Soldier, pipe up for mo, a herd*
lioy, glad
Because his flocks are folded.
Didymus , Ah, not I!
My star is withered; I am man no more.
Sigh after sigh the builder Grief takes up,
To heighten over me her gradual arch.
The Child. An arch of entrauce to a gener-
ous garden.
Where spirits aud the moonlit waters are.
Take comfort!
Didymus. Thou . art a strange child,
me thinks,
To say that too wise word.
The Child. Remember, then,
•Twas breathed to thee at Alexandria,
In early dying April’s golden air.
Didymus. Do I lie here, who deemed my-
self afar?
I had forgot; I am foolish, lost, bewildered.
Tht r Child. O mine elect: be patient! . . . .
Listen now.
There is an evening anthem in my reed;
"And while the laurels sparkle, and sunlit,
The mother-swallow dips into her cave,
And doves move close along their bridal
bough,
Murmuring sorrow. I will play to thee.
Didymus. I thank thee, boy, for I may fall
asleep.
The Child. Rather shalt wake, and from
thy doubt be born !
Lean so, against my knee.
[The Child plays a long time.
O Didymus,
With thy shut eye9, thy youth undedicatc.
Tell me the name of this new pastoral.
Didymus (asleep). He said: “My yoke is
sweet. My burden light.”
O light, O sweet, perchance, as it was said!
The Child. True heart ! The hour rounds
up; thy wine-press waits;
And so this music fades: the silver tones
Thin out, and faintly drip delight, and cease.
No willing man nor bird hears how. Good-
night,
0 soon-mnde-perfect!
II.
Night. The same fields. Didymus wakes, alone .
Didymus. It is black, and chill.
My little piper’s gone. . . How I have dreamed,
How I have dreamed! Lord, gather quietly
All wild hearts like mine own into Thy
hand.
Yet on the look of these fresh-kindled stars
1 feed, as il their bright benignant lips
Betimes had kissed the fever out of me,
And I were given their seat in warless air,
Their naked majesty, their poignant calm.
Not less remote my spirit, not less free,
After this unimaginable sleep;
Having changed place, indeed, poor moth
that was!
With vast abiding things: for now are cast
Old bonds, old ardors, expectation, ease,
Glory and death, beloved land and sea.
Even as walled frost, that feels the solar
ray.
Curls up, impermanent, and reels far down
In long blue films, elfin, processional.
While the buiit stones fall to their first
grave hue,
De-silvered: so the awful powers of earth
Exhale from me who stand the same; for
these
Are vain, these are phantasmal, hut not I.
At last I know myself, and know my need
As simply as a young child might, who
cries
For honey from his father's liberal hive.
I will go down at dawn; I will seek out
The Christian bishop, who shall lift me up,
A soul baptized. Some lant horn is beyond,
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UNFVERSfTY OF MFCHFGAN
134
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
“And thy condition?” Whereto she replied:
“Christ’s.” Very patiently lie asked:
44 Art bond or free?” as runs the rote of law.
She smiled in answering “Free; made free
by Christ;
Else, of free parents honorably born.
Iihoxis and Herals, who both are dead.”
“ Then why unmarried ?” 44 For Christ’s
sake,” she said,
For none could quench that hectic “Christ”
in her,
Poor fool ! Then spake Eustralius Proculus :
“Our code imperial deals with virgins thus.
Either unto the gods these sacrifice,
Or in au infamous place shall be exposed.
Come: one small grain within the brazier
dropped,
And thou dost forfeit all pollution so,
Nor lose thy burial-rites.” She, blanching not.
Looked up. 44 Thou art not ignorant, nor I,
How man’s co-operale or revolted will
Doth color, in the councils of high Heaven,
Both what, we do and suffer. Violence,
Though sent to seek my soul, shall by her gate
Sit pilgrim-meek. Christ keeps His citadel.”
The prefect bent again, compassionate:
“O girl! rememherest not thy sires august?
Pity thy beauty, heirloom of their bouse,
And precious most in thee. Choose to obey;
Since even thee my duty cannot spare.”
But she: “The nail-pierced Hands that have
my vow,
Defend it.” 44 Save thyself,” lie cried, 44 and
trust
No crucified ghost. From foul disgrace
Snatch thine own youth.” And she: “Be-
hold, I do.
Christ is my source of honor, and mine cud:
Christ shall be my preserver.” Next I heard:
“Buffet her twice.” Then: 44 Wilt thou sac-
rifice?”
My Theodora of the reddened cheek
Seemed absent from the body for a space,
Before she uttered: 44 No.” “Child, I am
grieved
For such affront, which all our city sees.
Thy quality invites another usage,
Wert thou not crazed.” He paused, being
full of ruth;
But self-relentless, she in that same pause
Brake forth: “O my one Wisdom, O my
Joy!”
And last. Eustralius Proculus rose up:
‘•The edict! Let it work. I dally not,
For loyal and immovable regard
Unto my Emperor.” 4 4 Bid me stand as true,”
She murmured, “in allegiance to a Power
Before whom sceptred Diocletian shines
Brief as this puffing coal.” “Ai, blasphemy!”
The vast crowd thundered. So they led her
down,
Into a three days’ torture in the prison;
And to the draped tribunal, all unchanged.
This eve she came. Said I, indeed, unchanged?
Her spirit and speech were that; her body
swayed
Hither and thither: a candle in a draught.
Some scrupled naught to praise such blithe
disdain,
Immaculate, illumined ; who e’er knew
Disdain could wear a look so like to Love’s?
And thrice Eustratius Proculus read out
Sentence, whereby the virgin Theodora.
A Christian obdurate and impious,
Must die indeed, but first must be immured
Until the day break, in the house of shame.
He ended. “May thy God for ihee achieve
The best He can 1” She added: “Aye, lie
will.
As Daniel from the lions; from the deeps
Jonah; from furnace - heats the unbought
three ;
Peter from dungeon chains; as yesterday
Our Agnes from the Roman ignominy, —
Shall I be rescued : He is faithful yet.”
Softly she prayed: “Lord, Lord! deliver
straight
Thy bounden servant, overshadowing
Thine own, in dread mid-battle, with Thy
wing.
Out of Thy mercy, let them harm me not:
By Thy most bitter Passiou borne for man,
0 fount of chastity, O fortitude
Of all Thy saints, Jesu! remember me."
Thus, in that voice which 1 shall hear no
more.
1 turned away, dragging my leaden limbs
Hillward, and homeward.
Didymus. And these shouts, these shouts,
Incessant, brutal, terrible, they mean —
C rat if las. That now the lictors drive her
forth ; they mean
Quick menace to a never-soiled blossom
Of Hellas come, and her heroic seed.
Ah, well: she will recant; she must recant.
My young hound bays her welcome. Enter,
sir. —
What ! Gone ? An armored man swooped
like a hawk
Down the sheer ledges to the city’s core?
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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THE MARTYRS’ IDYL.
137
Child, I am here to help thee: Didymus,
A Cappadocian.
Theodora. Heaven be thanked, and thou,
For I believe thee! Cappadocia:
Was it not there the blessed Dorothy
Brought apples to her lover, after death,
In token of the riches of that orchard
Where Christ \valk9 with His own? Let us
go thither.
Didymus. Ah, muse no more.
Theodora. The Lord abide with thee !
Didymus . Though unto me thy voice be
like the foam
Upon a wave of quiet, thy delay
Dearer than wine of roses, rouse thee: haste!
How else can I the pact maintain with Him
Who bade me loose thee from the snare?
Come nigh *
Doff thine apparel; put mine armor on.
Think but of flight and safety.
Theodora. Wingdd one,
Best brother, brighter than a star, and
stronger,
Uphold me!
Didymus. Bind thy locks. Alas, I am
No angel sent of Christ, nor yet a Christian.
Theodora. Why dwell in lowland shadow?
Thou, ere long,
Must drink of grace divine the deathless light.
On, happy soul: for there are hills to climb.
E’en Calvary hill.
Didymus. Art thou not vested yet?
The minutes seethe and rush. Oh, had I time,
I’d tell thee of my pangs: how it has been
From march to march *vith me ; how vehe-
mently
The sluices brake in this tormented heart,
To night, ten lives ago; how on yon heights
A boy. (not sweeter Hyacinthus was,)
Having a pensive garland of green thorns
Intrailed among his auburn curls, came by,
And with his new-cut reed, and myrrhy lip,
Entranced me into slumber; how I saw
Thy foster-father, and walked on with him,
And heard thy sacred story : thence I sprang
Into this hell, where I for thee shall answer.
And do thou plead with Christ, for me Ilis
thrall.
Theodora. The thong: pray knot it! Gen-
tle Didymus,
Here is my robe : the stuff is torn ; the stains
Began ’ncatli sharpened spikes, the hooks,
the rack.
Didymus. I kiss each dear and venerable
stain,
Vol XCVI1I.— No. 583.-17
And lay the reuded linen over me:
Would I were worthier!
Theodora. Cratidas the fond
Has somehow faded from me, and our roof
Among the date-palms, and my dial old
Set in the myrtle plot that takes the sun.
But thou art close and real: thou hast seen
The Mystical, the Virgin-born : his name
Ngt Hyacinthus, but Emmanuel.
(Much I have startled thee, who art so brave!)
None shared with me that vision oft vouch-
safed.
It was to Him I pledged my early troth.
Towards whom I live, for whom I look to die;
Whose love was sovereign healing unto me
When late within the torture cell I lay.
His chosen other, kneel not thou to me!
There is a Hand that will not let thine fall,
As mine doth.
Didymus. Sign me slowly with the cross.
Theodora. So: on predestined brows.
Didymus ( after a pause). Thy sandal's fast,
The breastplate firm and fine, each joint in
place.
Draw low the visor; let the short cloak hang,
And stoop in issuing forth : step hurriedly,
As one ashamed, whom his loud sins pursue.
Go now, secure.
Theodora. Thou shalt not hunger ever !
0 thy requital: let me live to see it!
Didymus. Go, even as I said.
Theodora. 1 am so weak:
What if I cannot?
Didymus. Hush : unbar the door,
And front the pack. — My sister, my twin-born,
Live thy sequestered life ; and pray for me.
[Theodora goes.
Ah, gracer of our Roman mail! I hear
No smallest rumor that her passage makes.
Not one least vicious snarl or jeer the more.
1 dare to dream Thou hast accepted this.
My true task in the world! By now, I think,
She leaves behind the fetid neighborhood;
A moment more, and her accustomed feet
Will be among the vineyards and the folds.
The little weary feet wounded for Thee,
Do Thou sustain! .... They come.
IV.
Midnight. The city square outside. Didymus
in the arched doorway of the same house. A
turbulent crowd around.
The Bailiff. Give way, give way!
Order among ye, subjects, citizens;
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138
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Order, I say! A seaman, in this dark,
Would swear he heard the angry equinox
Gorgiug and emptying the island caves:
A swash of death, where he had hoped for
haven.
Whence the commotion that, from well-earned
beds,
Untimely drags your rulers? Ibrahim,
Or Rufus, any of you with unslit tongue, a
Speak !
The Crowd, See him in the doorway, yel-
low-gowned;
See the young beauty in his flower! O Pan!
The Bailiff. Among these loud boors press
your torches in.
Back! Let the prefect pass.
Eustratius Proculus is borne into the square.
A Voice. Now shall we view
The snorting tiger-dam at bay, the while
The cub’s concealed.
The Prefect. Be silent! Clear with rods
The threshold of that house: the accused alone
Shall stand there. Hither and together call
The trumpeters, for I this cause arraign
In open air. [The trumpets sound.
Who so disturbs the streets?
What prince of Alexandria's worst?
Didymus. I think
It must be Christ Himself, or Christ in me;
Since in His quarrel I stand ambushed thus.
The Prefect. His talk is echo.
The Bailiff. Learned of lady-love!
Dull matter all : sheep filing over bars,
One hobble without end.
A Voice. Thy Theodora—
Didymus. Revere that name: for she is
Christ’s alone,
Not mine, not mine. Whithersoever goes
The Lamb in Heaven, such do follow Him.
The Prefect. Enough. With quick straight-
forward words respond.
Who art thou, chief in this unseemly brawl?
Didymus. One new to camp aud city, one
indeed
No alien, but your servant in the wars,
Beneath the imperial eagles now three years-.
Octavius Didymus, centurion.
The Prefect. A Roman, then. What of thy
friend, the woman.
Duly condemned for heinous sacrilege?
Didymus. The innocent Theodora is set free.
I never greeted her, nor saw, nor heard,
Up to our late accost in this vile pen.
A Voice. How now, neighbors? A joker.
Another Voice. Or a liar.
The Cwwd. More like, a fellow-Christian.
Didymus. Why a Christian?
The Prefect. (If not a Christian, it rejoiceth
me,
Aweary grown of all the casuist breed.)
I deem thy speech sincere. The charge being
light,
The penalty shall therefore, too, be light,
Since thou thyself of prior circumstance
Wert plainly unaware ; and forasmuch,
In thy regard, our judged idolatress
Was one with auy whimsied wench, cajoling
A frolic heart to let her out o’ doors.
Didymus. Let us not fail in truth : I knew
all this,
Who sped her from the maw of wicked-
ness.
My soul’s defiance glowed in all I wrought.
A Voice, By Pompey’s certain pillar, he’s a
Christian!
The prancing gesture, see: the eye upcast,
The bosom all in a white wrath, and yet
Bridled and bitted: that’s their duplex way.
7 he Prefect. I hesitate.
The Crowd. Eustratius Proculus.
We take him for a Christian!
The P)'efect. Prisoner,
Attend, and ease our cares. Obediently
Unto the known gods wilt thou sacrifice?
[Didymus is silent.
Art thou a Christian: nay?
Didymus. Tell me.
The Prefect. Alas,
Why loath to sacrifice? Do thou but so,
Irreverence to the law shall oe condoned,
And for the brave adveuture of a night,
No tax be laid.
Didymus. I sacrifice no more,
Save to the Liviug: save to Him who died,
And rose again.
The Bailiff. Ye hear.
A Voice. A leprous word!
The Prefect. It is a difficult hour: I must
comport
Myself within mine office, steadfastly.
Bring me the writ. One act is mine to do:
Another time for good alternatives!
Though fain to spare, fain to respect in thee
Arms, broadening empire, and invincible
Rome,
I that would never, fighting civic harm,
See Diocletian fail, nor have it said
Great Decius and Valerian failed before,
Rise to the common weal, and so bar out
Contagion from our loog inviolate air.
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THE MARTYRS’ IDYL.
139
Didymus. I feel the little lovely kiss of death
Breathe at my temples, softer than a bride.
The Prefect. Octavius Didymus, bound in
triple cords,
Shall be at sunrise, on the appointed plain,
Beheaded. Gracious Caesar, hail! all hail!
TV Crowd. Hail, Caesar !
Didymus. These have made me Thine, O
Christ!
The Prefect. Reflect: I can revoke, can miti-
gate.
Name but thy young confederate's hiding-
place.
Didymus. I know not, sir, where Theodora is.
She passed; and I remain. — Demonic laughter!
I would I had said less: it saddens me.
There figures verily, in all this swarm,
Not one that will believe; not one kind soul
But is so sodden with the slime of life,
(Life pagan, and without our Star,) that he
Must read awry, and slander my fair deed.
Ah, if they knew : but wherefore should
they know?
Lord, fold amid the leafage of my heart
Her liiied memory! I will strive no more;
But turn to Thee, away from time and tears:
A melting snowflake in Thy mercy's sea.
The Prefect. Disperse.
[ The trumpets sound.
A Voire. Our novel damsel, fallen dumb,
On the good public fliut shall soon strike fire;
An*! we may trap that masking man-at-arms
Before a lizard gets his inch of sun.
Ho, ho! Away: lead on!
The Croicd. Huzza! huzza!
V.
Du ten. The place of execution, xcest of the city,
Inking stair a rd. 1 he same crowd , leading
Didymus.
A Voire. A long inarch is well ended. How
fares he?
The Bailiff. He thrives ; I hear him mur-
muring idle spells.
Didymus. Soft is the twilight breeze, soaked
full of sea.
The veiled isle yonder rears her breathing lamp ;
And under us, in hollows of the crags.
Each washing wave goes like a gentle gong.
Across the hills there brims a lucent tide,
Inaudible, yet lovelier; living gray
Ridges the pulsing east, a surf of light;
And doubling ever on itself, a glow,
Now near, now far, breaks up the crested sky,
As children, pinkest in the green sea-garden,
Play in the earthly waters, unafraid,
And ruddier than all roses, race ashore.
So come, so come, gracile and glorious,
0 rose unborn, my Day!
The Bailiff. We’ll bait awhile,
And shortly see our way to honest work. . . .
Listen! Do others follow us, or no?
It seemed our concourse emptied nil the town.
Who stirs through this dim weather? *
A slave rushes in.
A Slave. Theodora !
They are bringing Theodora here to die.
The Crowd. Victory!
Didymus. Lord my God, what bast Thou
wrought?
1 tremble with the sorrow and the joy.
The shouts, the trampling feet, renew for me
A sacrifice I thought to make no more.
The Bailiff. Drag her yet nigher.
The Crowd. She is welcome!
A Woman. See:
Her knees are white ; the gold hair brushes
them;
The glimmering breastplate, in the breaking
dark,
Shows comely.
A Voice. Take it off !
Theodora. Not so; not yet.
The Bailiff. Then tell thine own night’s
tale: there’s privilege.
Theodora. A simplest tale. When dedicated
hands
Gave me this dress, lest I should suffer wrong,
The strong disguise gave courage; but I went
Only a mile : the armor was too heavy.
.Where blossomed almonds shade the road side
well,
Did I fall down, aswoon; I think I swooned
For long; and some late revellers, passing by,
Found me, and with a tumult took me hither.
Fulfil your will, iu pity : I would rest.
The Bailiff. Half of the sentence passed on
Didymus
Is yet to read : thy fate and his are oue.
Theodora. On Didymus? Most miserable I,
If he must suffer, being kind to me!
What have ye done with Didymus?
Didymus. I am nigh.
Voices. Look : they have run together !
Miscreants !
Theodora. O strange ordaining ! Tell me :
by what right
Art thou encountered on the fatal ground?
Didymus. By right more fair than thou canst
show; because
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140
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Not punished for thy planned deliverance.
But rather for the sacred Name, I staud
Tli us ready to the headsman. Aye : give thanks.
Yet thou, too rash, hast clouded my last >iour.
Did I not guard thee? Was my prayer in vain?
For into horror’s mouth thou hast returned.
Theodora. Nay : chide not. Test their
changed intent, and mark
That in it lurks for me no word but ‘Death,’
No word at all but dear dispassionate ‘ Death. *
Were I, still helpless, in dread peril caught,
To thy releasing hand I still had cried.
Who could not yield mine honor up; but this.
The debt of life, I can myself discharge.
Did I seek martyrdom? It bloomed for me!
Or, did I lack His cause, consider else
How I have angered these with mine escape,
How I am guilty of another’s end!
Rob me not, therefore, of the eternal crown,
Ah, Didymus: for thine to thee I gave.
Didymus. Blessed be One who hath de-
spised me not,
And, of His clemency, absolved from ill
His handmaid Theodora.
Theodora. Blessed He,
Towards only children twain, most merciful
Both in the olden time, and unto us
Who so, in triumph, wait our vigil’s close.
O Light from Heaven, break, break!
The Bailiff. Attend, all men:
Heed how to deal with perished Christian swine;
For much the law doth vary, touching them.
And since too oft their kind do set a watch,
And, ere the wild beasts from their lairs descend,
Conceal their bodies elsewhere, 'tis decreed
That these upon the bordering desert straight,.
Shall, after death, be burned.
The Crowd. It suits us well.
Theodora. Then not to secret chambers of
the rock,
Our own, with hymnal rite, shall lead us home;
Not to our natural nest beside the sea,
Above blown Pharos and the trader's sail.
Where, day and night, the Eucharistic Love
Broods over us, shall thou and I be borne,
And lain amid our fathers in the faith,
Sleep the good sleep of immortality.
Not one small tress of ours shall reverence save;
No fragment of our interchanged garb
Be shrined forever; nor ascetic lips
Embrace, in our carved names, the Crucified.
God’s Will be done, and done with all accord
In all! and may He grant that unto thee,
(Who art both less and more than neophyte,)
Denial of that quiet sepulture
Be not so keen a pain.— His look’s afar:
He has not answered.
Didymus. . . . Whole on every side!
Whole, boundless, and immingled: not a chink
In tremulous textures of this bubbly world,
Where spirits might slip through. O spa-
cious hour
Of ocean-distances, air-altitudes,
Pearl cloudless rounding over waveless pearl:
Pure Mediterranean! bland Africa!
Ignoble are the dreams that make of these
Mere anteroom; and anteroom to — what?
True lo original and terminal earth,
Rather may royal man, ensphered so fair,
His chemic end not thanklessly salute,
When too soon, from our arc of known content,
We blunder, poor blithe faces, to the void.
My star once fallen, can it live again?
If poets weep, if just Aurelius
Evade, if wistful Plato pause, unsure,
Ah, who art Thou that biddest me believe?
Theodora. Encased in thy so serviceable steel,
Against my bosom, I have kept for thee
An aromatic and a covered cup.
Come hither: drain it. Sudden over me,
While I lay stricken, ere my captors came.
There bent the childish Shepherd of the hills,
Austerer than his wont, and uttered low.
“Wake, Theodora! Bear to Didymus,
Whom, spent in final battle, thou shalt meet,
A little draught of mingled wine and dew,
For baptism, and viaticum."
Didymus. I hear.
A stupor, a temptation, clogged my brain:
Gone evermore. What hast thou been to me!
In any of God’s halls where I may find Him,
I seek thee also there: O dove! thou knowest
Thy hidden heavenly way through words
withheld.
I kueel, but cords impede my hands. Pour thou.
Till I have slaked a supersensual thirst.
And, faint with salutation, drink to Him,
Christ Jesus, whom in dying I adore.
The Bailiff. Despatch: broad daylight comes.
The Headsman. All is prepared.
Theodora. Amen : and Alleluia ! Heart
flown home.
If thou wouldst speak, rise up.
Didymus. Ye worthy men,
I will not keep you long. Of Didymus,
Who made his port of intellectual storm
At Alexandria, tell only this:
That he for Christ died Christian, with clear joy.
And when his comrades from their outpost ride,
And, reining in abreast, ask news of him,
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^F.SUAmAMT: 'MUiftlt:
TILE UNEXPECTEDNESS OF Mi
HORACE SHIELDS
l of ymtiii ami gnuvlh: we've
DR WILTjIAM- KINi* hml lit-, t.li vougk wiih H: but to make a phase \&r
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inun-M*].rU>. ' \W1I, How. Will jam, objected .«.>r
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but \v jji\ srob Rut <\ as Mm kl.M bv a mm UjV ^iti^nf Was mxly !uo ,V.h fo>-
lY-uYu o! ; (k* said slm W'a* d mU-sibb* fWwHma :sfmV YOUTiiT eiiowsrb f .O ku torn-
'WbrkHTb >ViVb tUv vyhHm, Kb* vYmtd k*«-p Uk , ; /Martha v.ty-> fcl/e look;* .muRp tW
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“ Sou i.ii.i * aai.1 Dr K ibe ^ isa u« ^vlnrh sio UiH^maVI iiironie;
THE UNEXPECTEDNESS OF MR. HORACE SHIELDS.
143
for she fed and clothed her plump, blond
William as though he had twice as much
to live on. When Mrs. King made an
unusually good bargain with the meat-
man. or haggled with Mr. Horace Shields
until he sold her a bottle of ink for two
cents less than the general public paid, she
used to say, exultingly, that it was well
for Willy, considering that he would not
send bills to half of his patients, that he
had a wife who would look after things.
“1 don't know what would have be-
come of you, Willy, if you'd married a
different kind of woman,” Martha would
say, good natu redly. ‘‘You would have
been in the poorhouse by this time!”
Although she did not know it, the good
Martha really opened up a very interest-
ing question which most women would
do well to ask themselves in regard to
their husbands: What would my Tom, or
Dick, or Harry, have been without mei
Not so silent, if he had chosen a girl who
did not gusli ; not so selfish, if he had had
a wife less addicted to unselfishness; not
so ill-tempered, if he had married some
One less anxious and nagging. The fact
is, these simple men creatures are as wax
in our hands; our tempers and our
tongues decide their eternal salvation —
though they never know it. They all
mean pretty well in the beginning, but
they fall into the hands of their wives,
and look at the result!
But Martha King had no time to waste
in such speculations. She was secretary
of the Woman's Auxiliary; and it was
known in Old Chester that she had once
sent a letter to the Spirit of Missions
calling attention to the mistakes of this
admirable organization. She had a Sun-
day-school class; and she did all the cut-
ting out for the Sewing Society. She was
an indefatigable parish worker; “invalu-
able in practical matters,” Dr. Lavendar
said, heartily. What he said when she
took it upon herself to tell him that he
bail done wrong not to give Anna King
back to her own mother nobody knew
except Martha, and she never told; but
la*r face got red when the matter was
referred to at Sewing Society. Still, I re-
menrter in this connection that when Mr.
Jim Shields expressed his opinion of Mrs.
King to Dr. Lavendar, the old minister
smoothed him down, and bade him re-
member that Manha had a good heart.
Good, but not graceful,” Mr. Jim growl-
ed. And Dr. Lavendar chuckled.
Added to her moral excellencies, Mrs.
King was a remarkable housekeeper; her
economies were the admiration of Old
Chester; — economical housekeeping was
not an Old Chester characteristic; we
were too near Mason and Dixon’s line for
that. She was orderly to a mathematical
degree, and so immaculately neat that
she had been known to say that if she
should see a particle of dust behind a pic-
ture-frame at twelve o'clock at night, she
would rise from her bed and remove it!
The reply made to this declaration was:
“ If you could see a particle of dust be-
hind a picture-frame at twelve o’clock at
night, you had better rise; — and consult
an oculist at once.”
Any woman will know that the doctor
said this: it is the reply of a husband.
But, really and truly, Mrs. King was a
capable, conscientious, sensible woman;
and Old Chester was not unreasonable in
expecting the same characteristics in her
younger sister, Lucy; but their only re-
semblance was that they neither of them
had the slightest sense of humor. In
every other way they could not have
been more radically different if they had
been relations by marriage.
Perhaps this was because they were al-
most strangers, Lucy having lived in the
East with her father ever since she was
ten years old. He came back, poor old
man, at the last, to die in Mercer. And
a month afterward Old Chester was told
briefly that Mrs. King’s sister, Lucy, was
coming to live with her.
“I don’t believe in it,” Mrs. King said.
“Willy’s sister didn’t come to live with
him when poor old Mrs. King died; and
I don’t know why my sister should live
with me. But Willy will have it. I
only hope, for her own self-respect, Lucy
will find something to do, so that she
won't be a burden on him. I shall tell
her so, flatly and frankly. I consider it
my duty.”
So Lucy came, with “Dick,” her canary-
bird, and her little caba full of worsted-
work. She was only twenty - three, the
idol of the old father, whose relation to
her had been maternal and loverlike and
brotherly, all at once. One does not just
see why, for though she was a good girl,
she was not especially attractive; very
shy, not pretty exactly, though she had
soft deer's eyes; certainly not sensible;
crushed, poor child, when she came to live
with the Kings, by her father's loss.
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wmr.;^TA:sr pa os uj.]
Mil. HORACB* looked
•■■■■•
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THE UNEXPECTEDNESS OF MR. HORACE SHIELDS.
145
Willy looked at her once or twice the
first day at breakfast, and wondered how
two sisters could be so different.
44 No, I don't like sewing,” she said,
listlessly. 44 No, I don't care for books.”
And then, later: “No, I don’t know any-
thing about cooking. I don’t like house-
keeping. But I like worsted-work pretty
well.”
“I think,” said Martha, decidedly,
44 that father did very wrong not to
let you learn to do something useful.
Worsted-work is nothing but a waste of
time. I think he—”
44 Don’t!” the other cried out. 44 Don’t
speak to me about my father!”
“Well, he was my father too,” Mrs.
King remonstrated. “One speaks the
truth of people, Lucy, whether they are
relations or not. Because he was my fa-
ther doesn’t make him perfect, ’’said Mar-
tha, gravely.
But Lucy got up and went out of the
room, trembling as she walked.
“You hurt her feelings,” said the doc-
tor.
44 But, my dear, it’s true. She ought to
have been taught things ; but father spoil-
ed her from the time she was born: she
was the youngest, you know. He just
lay down and let her walk over him;
which was wrong; you can’t deny that?”
44 1 want my dinner at 1.30,” said Willy
King. “I’ve got to see Mr. Jim Shields
again, and I want to go before dinner.”
“You went before breakfast,” said Mrs.
King. 44 There’s nothing you can do ; and
as you ’make no charge, it seems rather
foolish — ”
44 Do you think your sister would like
to go round with me in the sleigh this
morning?” the doctor said, stopping, with
his hand on the door-knob, and looking
back into the dining-room. “It isn’t
cold, and the sleighing is good.”
But Lucy, when her sister took the
message up to her, only said, listlessly,
“ I don't mind.”
44 It will do you good,” her brother-in-
law called up-stairs; “come along!”
And Martha added, kindly, “Here’s a
cushion, Lucy, to put behind you.”
“ I don't need it, thank you, sister
Martha,” Lucy said. But Martha in-
sisted.
“ You will be much more comfort-
able,” she said, decidedly; and pushed the
pillow behind her little sister, and tucked
the robe firmly around her feet; and then
Vor. XOVIlf.— No. 563—19
they started — the quiet, apathetic, unhap-
py child (who had removed the cushion
as soon as she was out of her sister's
sight), leaning back in the sleigh behind
the doctor’s big shoulder, and looking off
over the snow shining under a soft blue
sky, but saying nothing. Once she ut-
tered a little cry when the runner on the
doctor's side went up on a drift and the
sleigh heeled like a boat; and once she
caught his arm, because the horse danced
at the sound of tlie butcher’s horn tooting
at a customer’s door.
“Scared?” said Willy, looking at her
kindly. “ You mustn't mind Jinny ; she
is a lamb. She only prances to show she
feels happy.”
44 I’m so afraid of horses,” Lucy an-
swered, breathlessly.
After that her brother-in-law made
Jinny walk down all the hills; then he
told her which of his patients he was go-
ing to visit, and once or twice added in-
teresting details of their diseases, which
made Lucy turn away her head and wince,
and say, under her breath, 44 Oh please,
brother William! I can't bear to hear
those things.”
And the doctor whistled, and said to
himself, “Sisters!”
That day the longest call was upon Mr.
Jim Shields; it was so long that Willy
came running out of the house after a
while, bareheaded, and bade his little
sister-in-law get out of the sleigh and go
into the shop in the basement to wait for
him.
“I hope you don’t mind, Lucy,” he
said; 44 1 just meant to look in on him;
but he is having a dreadful — ” Lucy
drew up one shoulder and bit her lip.
44 He doesn’t feel very well; so I must
wait awhile. You go right into the
shop; there’s nobody there; Mr. Horace
is upstairs with his brother.”
He helped her out, and hurried back
into the house, where, in his anxiety and
pity, he forgot Lucy, sitting alone in the
little shop downstairs.
There was a fire in the triangular grate
in the corner, and the sunshine came in
through the window in the door, behind
which a little bell had tinkled as they
entered. “ Books, Etc. H. Shields,” was
the sign outside; but, to be exact, Mr.
Horace's shop was mostly 44 Etc.” Lucy,
looking about, saw that the slates on the
third shelf were not in an orderly pile;
she glanced nervously around, and then
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HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
slipped behind the counter and straight-
ened them, and then dusted the books in
the small show-case with her handker-
chief, and blew the powdered chalk from
the shelf where the blackboard materials
were kept. Just then the bell struck out
a jangling note, and the door opened ; a
boy wanted two stamped envelopes. Lucy
looked at him in consternation; but when
the child pointed to the green paste-
board box where the stationery was kept,
and even opened the till for her so that
she might change his dime, she found
herself quite at ease; she even hoped
some more customers would come, it was
so interesting to sell things. But no one
came, and Lucy watched the square of
sunshine move across the floor, and heard
a cinder drop sometimes from the grate, or
a spurt of flame bubble out between the
bars. It was an hour before her brother-
in-law thought of her, and came, with
many apologies, to take her home.
He had quite forgotten Lucy. Like
everybody else in Old Chester, the doc-
tor’s mind was full of the Twins — Old
Cl i ester always referred to the Shields
brothers in this way. Being twins, the
two old gentlemen were, for all practical
purposes, the same age; but, as far back
as I can remember, the younger had been
“ old Mr. Horace ” to his neighbors, while
the first-born was Jim Shields to the end
of the chapter— and a brave end it was,
too! In his early manhood he had been
a high-hearted, irresponsible, generous
young fool; a bit of a bully, very likely,
in the way of overriding other people’s
views, and insisting upon his own with a
joyous dogmatism that never irritated.
And when what he called his “ cussed
body” got the better of him and pinned
him down into a wheeled chair, he was
still generous and courageous and merry;
and he bullied his brother and his doctor
and Old Chester, and, indeed, Death him-
self— bullied him, jeered at him, swore at
him, and lived through nearly thirty
years of dying without a wince.
James had fallen ill when he was thir-
ty-five. He was sailing around the world
as supercargo for a large East India
trading - house, when, suddenly, he came
home. He had “had notice,” he said,
briefly. “An old sawbones in London
explained it to me,” he said; “told me I
mustn’t try to keep going any longer.
Fact is, I’ve got to rust;— or bust,” he
ended, cheerfully.
It was a year before Old Chester knew
that that “rusting” meant an invalid’s
chair, and slow, relentless, invincible dy-
ing; but James and Horace knew it, and
they looked into the enemy's eyes to
getlier. Horace was a little man, with a
rosy face; he was resolute, but it was in
his own fashion ; he had his quiet way of
carrying out plans for Jim’s comfort, no
matter how his twin roared at him, and
swore he would or lie wouldn’t; but he
never had his brother’s vigor in express-
ing himself. Indeed, once only, when,
trembling with alarm, he called Willy
King a fool, was he known to have
spoken forcibly.
The two brothel's lived in a brick house
on Main Street; two flights of stone steps,
their hand-rails ending in brass knobs,
curved up to its front door, which had a
fanlight and a big iron knocker. Behind
this door was the hall, the walls covered
with varnished paper which represented
blocks of veined and mottled yellow mar-
ble; the staircase wound round this hall,
and under it were two steel-engravings —
“The Maid of Saragossa” and “Bolton
Abbey ” — both brown and stained with
mildew. The parlor was on the left as
one entered; it was a big, bare room,
with a high ceiling; there were green
Venetian blinds in the windows, and a
pale paper on the walls— landscapes in
light brown, of castles and lakes; on the
wooden mantel, like flat trees laden with
prisms, were three candelabra, each with
its ormolu milkmaid simpering under the
boughs; and there were some shells, and
a carved teak- wood junk, and a whale’s
tooth — relics of Mr. Jim’s adventurous
days. Here, all day long, Jim Shields
sat and watched life slip between his
helpless fingers. Death seemed to play
with him as a child plays with a fly —
pulling off a wing, or a leg, or another
wing, and the head last.
But nothing goes on forever. James
had been dying for nearly thirty years,
and one day he died.
“But,” Horace had gasped when, that
sunny December morning, while little
Lucy was waiting in the shop. Willy
King told him how it was going to be —
“but it's so sudden!” And then he re-
membered that, after all, Willy was but
a boy. What did he know about James?
James was taken sick when Willy was
ten years old! “You’re a fool, Willy!’’
he said, trembling. “I'm going to send
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to Mercer for a man; this isn’t a time
for boys !”
Afterwards, as he drove Lucy home,
the doctor said that if it was the slight-
est comfort to Mr. Horace, he wished
he would call in all the doctors in the
county. “ Not that there is a single thing
to do.” said Willy, slapping his rein down
on Jinuy's shining flank. “ Mr. Jim has
come to the end. And poor old Mr. Hor-
ace will break his heart.”
His little sister-in-law looked over at
the runner cutting into unbroken snow
at the edge of the road. “I’m sorry,”
she said, in a low voice.
II.
Little Lucy was sorry, but her sorrow
did not keep her from shrinking away up
stairs when Martha began to ask the doc-
tor the particulars of the morning: “ An-
other spasm at twelve? Well, I suppose
his feet have begun to swell? I hope
he won't last much longer, poor man. I
felt just so about father; I didn’t want
him to linger, and — ” but just here Lucy
slipped out of the room, and her sister
looked after her open-mouthed. As for
the doctor, he plodded industriously
through his very good dinner, and told
her every detail; and when he had fin-
ished the dinner and the disease, he add-
ed. absently, “ She is very sensitive, isn’t
she?"
“Who?” said Martha.
“ Why, your sister.”
“Oh, Lucy? She is very silly, I’m
afraid. I don’t believe in calling fool-
ishness sensitiveness! And you told old
Mr. Horace?”
“Yes, I told him, poor old fellow!”
“Well, he ought to be glad to have
Mr. Jim free from suffering,” the doctor’s
wife said, kindly. “I should have told
him so, flatly and frankly. What did he
say?M
“He said I was a fool.” Willy an-
swered, smiling. “He’s going to have
further advice.”
“ I hope he has the money to pay for
it.” Martha said; “he won’t find that all
doctors are like you, Willy. One would
think, to look at some of your bills, that
you were independently rich, instead of
just a poor country doctor. And now
here's Lucy come to be a burden on
you — ”
“She isn’t a burden at all,” William
King said. “She doesn’t eat enough to
keep a sparrow alive, and I guess even
Mr. Horace’s account will provide for
that.” Then he looked out of the win-
dow. “It isn’t as if we had children of
our own we had to save for,” he said.
Mrs. King was silent.
As for Willy, he went back and spent
the afternoon with the twins. The end
was very near; for the “man ’’that Mr.
Horace had sent for confirmed the “boy”;
and by-and-by Jim confirmed them both.
“I can’t help it, Horry,” the dying
man said, moving his big, lionlike gray
head restlessly — “I’ve — got to— let go.”
Mr. Horace set his jaws together and
drew a determined breath. “Of course
you have — of course you have. Now
don’t worry. I’ll get along. Come, now,
cheer up!”
“But you’ll be so damned lonely,”
whimpered the other. He was blind, and
could not see his little brother wipe his
eyes, and blink, and swallow to get his
voice steady.
“Well, yes, of course; somewhat. But
I can get along first-rate; and I’ll get
more time for reading.”
“Reading !” said the other, with a snort.
“Much reading you’ll do! No, you'll be
just damned lonely,” he said again, with a
groan.
“Don’t think of it,” said Mr. Horace,
his voice trembling. “I — I won’t mind
it in the least, my dear fellow. Oh,
James r he ended, weakly. He looked
up at Willy King, but the doctor was
making a pretence of dropping some
medicine into a glass, so as to hide his
own blurring eyes. As for Dr. Laven-
dar, who was there too, he took the grop-
ing, dying hand, and said,
“Jim, we’ll all stand by him — ” and
then he took out his big red silk handker-
chief, and his breath caught in a sob.
For, like everybody else, he loved Jim
Shields. To be sure, he winced at cer-
tain words which honest old Mr. Jim
used with surprising freedom; but ap-
parently he never took them much to
heart. “Jim — Jim, don’t be profane,”
he would remonstrate, with a horrified
look. And Jim, sweating with pain,
would gasp out:
“The devil take it! I forgot the cloth.
I apologize; but I wasn’t profane. Pro-
fanity is unnecessary swearing, and if this
isn’t necessary. I’ll be — ”
“James! James! James!”
But now, when Jim Shields lay dying.
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His wicked tongue, his impudent courage,
were an expression of his religion; and
the old minister had eyes to see this. So
he only patted the blind, groping hand,
and said:
“Jim, we'll do all we can for Horace.
Never you fear!”
“ Who’s afraid?” said Mr. Jim, thickly.
“But I — can’t hold on — much — longer.
Damned if I can.”
“ Don't try, don't try,” Horace entreat-
ed, in anguish. Then came a long dull
effort, and the heavy, muffled tongue said
one pathetic word:
“ Lonely?”
“ No, "old Mr. Horace said again ; “no;
I won’t be lonely. Mind, now, Jim, I
won’t be lonely. Do you hear? Jim!
I won't. Jim — do you hearV ’
So, bravely, old Horace Shields told his
lie to make dying less deadly for his bro-
ther.
Then he went on living as well as he
could, meeting first the visible loneliness,
if one may call it so — the silent house,
the empty chair, the fuller purse. The
occupation of service was ended ; the
anxiety was over; the habits of life were
torn to pieces. Ah, me! How much of
the torment of grief comes from this vio-
lent change of the habits of life! For
Mr. Horace there were no more duties:
he need not roll a wheeled chair on the
sunny side of the street; he need not
taste the beef tea to see if it had enough
pepper; he need not bring out the chess-
board; he need not do a hundred other
small services; his habit of affection was
over, and the habit of grief had not yet
come to him. He went blundering and
staggering through the overwhelming
leisure of material loneliness. As for
the spiritual loneliness — but enough of
that! Those of us who have reached
middle life do not need the telling. And
as for the younger folk, they would not
understand it if they were told. They
are dancing to the piping of Life, and one
of these days they’ll pay the piper; then
they will understand.
But everybody was very good to poor
old Mr. Horace in his affliction. Mrs.
Dale sent him wine jelly in a rabbit
mould. Mrs. Drayton presented him with
a “ booklet ” bound in white and gold,
and named Tears Wiped Array; but she
sighed a little when she wrapped it up,
and said to Mrs. Wright that poor James
Shields's language was not that to fit a
man for dying; however, she hoped the
Lord would overlook it; in fact, she had
asked Him to do so. Miss Wei wood—
she was just about to become Mrs. Bark-
ley then, so it was especially kind in her
to think of other people’s sorrows— car-
ried him a handful of ambrosia, which,
having been first dipped in water, and
then rolled in flour, formed a white and
shaking decoration, suitable, Miss Maria
thought, for a house of mourning.
Dr. Lavendar used to come and sit with
him in the evening, and smoke silently;
noticing, as silently, that Jim’s chair and
footstool had not been removed, and that
the chess-board had remained just as it
had been left at the last game — that pa-
thetic effort of grief to find permanence.
Sam Wright sent Mr. Horace a case of
wine; Willy King was very attentive; and
Martha wrote him a kind, sensible letter,
telling him that if he would remember
that Mr. Jim was at rest, he would be
reconciled, she was sure. And then she
added that she had heard that he would
not have Mr. Jim's room changed, but
that she did hope he would not make such
a mistake. “ It is easier to change things
now than it will be later,” she said, very
truly, “so I do hope you will just have
the parlor renovated. Take my word, it
will be easier for you in the end.”
Mr. Horace, when he had read this very
good advice, poked her letter down into
the fire, and then looked around the
room fiercely, as though challenging what
everybody will agree was common-sense.
A good many letters of sympathy came,
but Mr. Horace did not read them. He
put them away in his desk in the shop.
Nor did his kindly, sorry old friends
venture to talk about James. “He can’t
bear that, it appears,” Dr. Lavendar said,
sadly, and smoked in pitying silence.
It was all silence to Mr. Horace — a si-
lence without interest. He went into the
store every morning, and looked listlessly
about; there was the mail to be opened —
when there was any mail, and occasional
customers to be waited on. There was
the trade paper to be read, and sometimes
circulars. Jim used to make the circulars
into spills to light his pipe, because, he
said, everything ought to be of some use
in the world, even lies. But the interest
of the shop, the story of the day’s doings
to be told to Jim, was gone. After supper
there was nothing for it but to sit alone
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in the parlor, with the faded landscapes on
the wall, and the twinkle of lamp light in
the prisms of the candelabra, and the
chess-board open on the table. Nothing
for it but to sit there and think of James
with every muscle of the body and the
soul held back from its customed move-
ment of service and of care — so tense and
so weary that when sleep relaxed his vigil-
ance for a moment these faithful servants
of years of affection moved automatical-
ly, and he would put his hand on the
chess-board, or wake with a start, calling
out: “James! what is it? James — ”
III.
“ I tried to tell Mr. Horace how I sym-
pathize with him,” said Mrs. King, “and
he just said : 4 Oh yes; yes, yes. Do you
think we are going to have rain?’ Some
one ought to tell him, flatly and frankly,
to try and accustom himself to speak of
Mr. Jim.”
Lucy was silent, sitting with her hands
in her lap, looking out of the window
into the rainy garden. Her worsted-work
had been given up soon after she came
to live with her sister, for Martha had
pointed out to her that it was very fool-
ish to make things nobody needed ; — 44 the
Jay girls do enough of that,” said Mrs.
King, with a good-natured laugh. So
Lucy's hands were idle, and her sister
made an impatient gesture. 44 How can
you sit there, Lucy, and do nothing?”
“ I'm going to read,” Lucy said.
44 What is your book?” her sister in-
quired, kindly; and Lucy displayed a
paper-cover, which made Martha shake
her head and smile and sigh.
“A novel! Lucy, don’t you do any
improving reading?”
“ I don’t like improving reading,” Lucy
said, nervously.
Martha put her work down. 44 Now,
Lucy, look here; I don't believe you
mean what you say, but if you do
mean it, you ought to be ashamed to say
it.”
44 I'll sew. if you want me to,” said Lucy,
turning white and red.
44 I don't want you to sew for me,” the
doctor's w ife said. 44 I can do my own
work. But I must say I don’t seo how
you can be willing to be idle. You do
nothing but take care of that poor canary-
bird! (the most untidy thing I ever had
in my house!) Upon my word, Lucy, if
I had a dozen daughters, I’d bring every
one of them up to do something, so they
shouldn't be dependent!”
44 I'd like to do something,” Lucy an-
swered, faintly, 44 but I don't know any-
thing.”
44 Well, that's just what I say,” her sis-
ter said. “But I suppose there's no use
talking!” Yet, after the manner of la-
dies who say there is no use talking, the
doctor's wife continued to talk. She had
talked pretty much all winter. Little
Lucy had shrunk and shivered, and gone
up stairs to cry all by herself, but nothing
had come of it. She was so silent and
apathetic, so incapable of repartee, that it
must be said, in excuse for Martha, that
she had no conception how her words
stung. Apparently they made no im-
pression whatever; — which lured her on
into greater and greater frankness— that
virtue in whose name so many unplea-
santnesses are committed ! Once the doc-
tor said, nervously, he did wish she would
let up on that child; and his wife, a little
hurt, said that she was only speaking for
Lucy's good. 44 If I had ten girls of my
own,” she said, “I would bring them up
to have proper ideas of work.”
44 1 think ten girls with proper ideas
would be dreadful to live with,” said the
doctor, conjugally. And then he went
up stairs and knocked on Lucy's door, and
produced a little package.
44 A present— for me?” Lucy said, and
pulled open the parcel, and found a little
pin lying on a bed of pink cotton.
“Oh, brother William !” she $aid, and
gave him her hand; and then, on an im-
pulse, put up her face and kissed him.
As for Willy King, he blushed to his
ears. Then she bade him wait while she
put the pin into the black ribbon bow at
her throat. “Does it look pretty?” she
said, anxiously. The doctor put his head
on one side, and said that it did.
Lucy looked in the glass, and took the
pin out and stuck it in at a different
angle. 44 Isn't that better?” she said; and
Willy turned her round to the light, and
said, critically, he believed it was.
He went down stairs smiling to him-
self. 44 1 gave Lucy a pin,” he told li is
wife. 44 She was pleased as a kitten.”
44 A pin !” said Martha. 44 Why, Willy
King! as if you didn’t have expense
enough in buying her shoes and stock-
ings! And I must say, considering how
hard it is to make both ends meet, it was
extravagant, my dear.”
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
“It was only five dollars,” her hus-
band defended himself.
“Wilson’s bill for fixing the drain is
five dollars,” Mrs. King observed, sig-
nificantly. “Justice before generosity,
my dear.”
William King made no reply, but he
knew she was right, which did not make
him any more affectionate. For men love
their wives not because of their virtues,
but in spite of them.
As for Martha, she was really troubled.
“We can’t afford to make presents,” she
said to herself; she was putting a new
binding on her dress, and her fingers were
dusty, and her mind in the ruffled condi-
tion peculiar to this occupation. When
Lucy came and showed her the little pin,
it took real grace on poor Martha’s part
not to express her opinion.
Instead, she glanced at her over her
glasses, and said, kindly: “You look a
little pale, Lucy. If you feel chilly, you
had better take some quinine.”
“ I hurt my ankle when I went out to
walk,” Lucy explained, her sister’s inter-
est rousing her a little. “I tripped on
the board walk on the common ; .it had a
hole in it.”
“That’s very dangerous — I mean the
hole,” Martha said; “ your ankle will be
all right as soon as you have rested it.
Put your foot up on a chair.”
“ I don’t think I want to,” Lucy said.
“ Oh, you’ll be a great deal more com-
fortable!” Martha said, with kindly de-
cision; qnd got up herself, and brought a
chair and a pillow, and lifted the strained
ankle gently. “ There, that’s better!” she
said. “ But about the hole in the board
walk: some one might hurt themselves
seriously. You had better write a note
to Sam Wright about it; he is the Bur-
gess, you know.”
“ Oh. I couldn’t!” Lucy said, horrified.
Martha put her work down and looked
at her. “ Why, Lucy, have you no sense
of responsibility? Don’t you care to make
things better?”
“ I wouldn’t write to him for anything
in the world!” said Lucy.
Martha shook her head. “That’s not
the way to look at life, Lucy. But I’m
afraid it’s part of your nature. I’m afraid
it’s the same characteristic which makes
you willing to be idle when all the rest
of the world is at work.”
And Lucy, turning white and red, said
not a single word.
Martha sighed and went on with her
binding. She was seriously troubled
about her sister; not so much at the girl’s
absolute inefficiency, as at the lack in
character which it indicated. All winter
she had been trying, honestly and prayer-
fully, to correct it, with about as much
success as one who tries, with big, well-
meaning, human fingers to smooth out a
butterfly’s crumpled wing, or to free some
silken, shining petal which has caught
and twisted in its imprisoning calyx.
Well, well! if good people would only
be content to know that the rest of us
cannot reach their level, how much irri-
tation they would spare themselves!— and
we too, in little ways, would be happier.
Though that, of course, does not matter.
The fact was, poor Lucy’s virtues were
not economic or civic; they were, per-
haps, nothing more than a little kindly
heart, pure thoughts, and a pretty, eager
smile; but they were her own. Martha
conscientiously tried to bestow hers upon
the child ; and Lucy grew more and more
silent.
“I make absolutely no impression!”
poor Martha said, sighing; and Willy re-
plied, under his breath, “Thank Heaven !”
However, she did make an impression
at last.
It was at night, and Martha, going up
to bed, saw a light under Lucy’s door.
“How foolish of her to sit up so late!”
she thought — for it was late. Martha had
waited up to see that the doctor had
something hot to eat and drink when he
came in at midnight from a late call (thus
was Willy justified of common-sense in a
wife). And here was Lucy’s lamp burn-
ing at nearly one.
Martha, in a warm and ugly gray flan-
nel dressing-gown, knocked at the door,
and entered, her candle in her hand, aud
her work-basket under one arm. “ Why,
you’re rather late, aren't you, Lucy?” she
said, disapprovingly.
Lucy was sitting over a little fire which
had retreated into one corner of the
grate; she shivered as she looked up.
“ I’m just going to bed,” she said.
“ It’s foolish to sit up when you don't
have to,” Martha said, decidedly.
“ I got worried about brother Wil-
liam,” Lucy confessed; “I wanted to
make sure he was at home — it’s such a
storm to-night.”
“Worried!” cried her sister, laughing
in spite of herself. “ Why, he’s at home.
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safe and sound, eating some supper down-
stairs. My dear, worry is the most fool-
ish tiling in the world. I never worry.
Now do go to bed. Here, I’ll slake your
fire for you.”
She took up the poker, stirring the dis-
couraged - looking fire vigorously; then
she lifted the coal-scuttle in her strong
hands and flung the slake on; there was
a small burst of flame, and the smell of
coal dust and gas.
“Oh, its so unpleasant!” said Lucy,
drawing back.
“There are a great many unpleasant
things in this world, Lucy,” said Martha,
shortly. “Come, now, go to bed! It
isn’t as if you had any duty which kept
you up.”
“Yes, I will,” Lucy said, listlessly.
“ Dear me, Lucy, I don’t know what
you would do if you had any duties. I
sometimes think it’s fortunate for you
that your brother-in-law is so good-na-
tured. Most men, especially if they were
poor country doctors like Willy, would
rather resent it to have to support their
wives’ sisters, who haven’t a single care
or duty in the world except to look after
a canary-bird. (I don’t see how you can
keep that bird, it’s so untidy!)”
“ I don’t know what to do,” Lucy said,
getting up and looking at her with fright-
ened eyes — “and — and — I’ll try not to
eat so much, sister Martha.”
Martha blenched at that. “Oh, don’t
be foolish, my dear! It isn’t the eating,
or anything like that. It’s the principle :
I would earn my way! But don’t be
foolish and talk about not eating.” Mrs.
King had the sensation of having stepped
down further than she expected— a sort
of moral jar.
“ I would do anything I could,” said
little Lucy, beginning suddenly to cry
convulsively. “ I don’t like to be a bur-
den on brother William; but I never
learned to do anything, and — ”
“Yes, that's just what I said; father
never had you taught anything. You
might give music lessons, if he had ever
made you practise thoroughly; but he
was just satisfied to have you play tunes
to him after supper. I don’t blame you,
Lucy, but I do blame father. I — ”
“Stop blaming father! Oh, my fa-
ther! my father!”
She ran panting to the other side of the
room, and caught up a little photograph of
her father and held it against her breast.
Martha looked at her in consternation
and serious disapproval. “ How can you
be so foolish, Lucy?” she said. “Well,
there’s no use talking; only, I must
say, flatly and frankly — ”
“Martha, I won’t hear my father criti-
cised. I wish I was dead with him. Oh,
father!” the poor child broke out. And
then there was a fit of crying, and she
threw herself on the bed, face down, and
would not speak when her sister tried to
comfort her.
“There, now, come!” Mrs. King said;
and patted her shoulder, which showed
no yielding;— there is nothing which can
be so obstinate as the shoulder of a cry-
ing woman.
Mrs. King was really uneasy when she
left her. She even went so far as to tell
the doctor that she thought he had better
look after Lucy.
“ I think she’s inclined to be hysteri-
cal,” she said. “ She is a foolish girl, I’m
afraid, but I think she’s really nervous,
too. What do you suppose, Willy ? She
was sitting up over a miserable little fire,
worrying , if you please, because you were
late! I have no patience with women who
worry; either the thing will happen, or it
won’t; and sitting up in the cold, at one
o’clock at night, won’t accomplish any-
thing one way or the other.”
“Worrying? about me!” said the doc-
tor, stopping with a suspender in one out-
stretched hand ; “ well !”
IV.
But the worm had turned. In her hope-
less, uninterested way, Lucy had made up
her mind : she would not be a burden any
longer. She would go to Mercer and try
to get pupils, and give music lessons. She
was not resentful, she was not bitter, still
less was she in intelligent accord with her
sister; she was only started, so to speak,
like a stone that has been pushed past a
certain point of resistance.
A week after this talk she told Martha
that she was going to Mercer. “I am
going to visit Miss Sarah Murray; she in-
vited me to visit her some time this win-
ter. And I’ll take Dick.”
Mrs. King put down her sewing. “ I
shouldn’t think you would want to make
visits, Lucy, with father dead only six
months. I should think you would rather
stay quietly here with me, considering
that we are both in affliction.”
Lucy made no reply.
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“ But of course you are perfectly free
to do as you please,” her sister went on.
“ I think I’d better go,” Lucy said.
There was something in her voice that
made Mrs. King uneasy. “ I don't see why
you say that; of course, if you want to
go— why, go! But I must say it looks as
though you were not contented, and it
sort of reflects on your brother-in-law.”
44 Oh ! no, no !” Lucy said, in an agitated
way; 44 he has been so kind to me!”
Somehow Martha King winced at that,
though she did not know why.
The doctor, when he heard the news,
frowned; and then he half sighed. 44 Oh,
well, she’s young,” he said.
But he chucked his little sister-in-law
under thechin wlienhecamedown to break-
fast, and told her that if she staid away
too long he would come and bring her
home. 44 And look here, Lucy, you must
have a new cape, or bonnet, or something.
What do you say to a pink bonnet?”
Willy smiled all over his face, but his
jaw fell when Martha said, 44 Now, Willy !
how can she wear pink when she is in
black?”
44 Oh! oh yes,” the doctor said, awk-
wardly. And then, for no reason in par-
ticular, he sighed; — perhaps the child
would be happier in Mercer. 44 Well,” he
said, 44 you can have an escort, if you go
on W ed nesday, Lucy — Mr. Horace Shields.
I’ll ask him to look after you. He’s go-
ing East to give his spring order.”
44 So I heard at sewing society,” Mar-
tha said. “Well, I think he is a very
foolish old man.”
Mrs. King was not alone in this belief.
Old Chester was disturbed by this project
of Mr. Horace’s: he had always ordered
his goods by mail, and to take a journey
for the purpose was obviously unneces-
sary.
“I don’t like restlessness,” said Mrs.
Dale, with a stern look.
“Sam sent him some wine,” said Mrs.
Wright, 44 and I am sure we were all very
kind to him; so why should he go away
from home?”
“ Besides,” said Mrs. Drayton, “who
can make up to him for his loss so well
as his friends? We all liked poor Mr.
James — though he did certainly use im-
proper language at times. I once heard
him use a profane word myself. I should
not be willing to repeat it. It was — not
the worst one, but the one with 4r’ in it,
you know.”
The ladies shook their heads, except
Mrs. Barkley, who said, harshly, that, for
her part, she didn't wonder at Jim Shields;
she believed she would have said some-
thing stronger than 44 dear me” herself.
But Martha King said, seriously, that she
hoped Mrs. Drayton had told him, flatly
and frankly, how wrong it was to lose
one’s self-control and swear.
“ Well, no, I didn’t,” Mrs. Drayton
confessed. “It’s so painful to me to
speak severely to any one.”
44 Because it is painful is no reason for
not doing one’s duty,” Martha returned,
decidedly.
44 Well, as for his going away,” said
Mrs. Drayton, “probably he hasn’t been
so overwhelmed by grief as we thought.
I judged him by myself. If I had lost
a loved one, I couldn’t go travelling
about. But I'm sure I hope he’ll enjoy
himself, poor man !”
And all the sewing society said it was
sure it hoped so too.
It was a rainy morning in March that
Mr. Horace went away. The stage was
waiting for him at the door of the tavern
when he came hurrying down the street
— he had been delayed by giving direc-
tions to Mrs. Todd, who was to keep the
shop open during his absence — and there
was the doctor holding an umbrella over
a slim girl in a black frock, who was car-
rying a bird-cage in one nervous little
hand.
“This is Lucy, Mr. Horace,” Willy
King said. 44 We will be so much obliged
if you will look after her on the way.”
“ To be sure I will — to be sure I will,”
said Mr. Horace; and the little girl put
her hand in his without a word.
She was the only other passenger; and
when Willy had tucked the robe around
her, and smuggled a bag of candy into
her muff, the door, with its painted land-
scape, was slammed to, and the stage,
pitching and creaking on its springs,
started up the hill, passing the church
and then the graveyard — at which Mr.
Horace looked through the streaming
rain on the coach window. His fellow-
traveller, however, turned her face away.
There was something in the shrinking
movement that touched Mr. Horace. He
remembered that Willy had told him the
child had had some sorrow — if one can say
sorrow in connection with youth; so he
made an effort to come out of his absorp-
tion, and talk to her, and cheer her.
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She had very little to say, only an-
swering him in gentle monosyllables,
until by some chance he referred to her
father.
“ I met him several years ago, ma’am;
and my brother James had some acquaint-
ance with him.”
Lucy’s eyes suddenly filled.
Mr. Horace looked at her, with instant
sympathy in his ruddy old face. So
youth may grieve, after all?
“My dear, I have recently suffered a
loss myself,” he said, gently.
“ Oh yes,” said Lucy ; “ I know. I was
very sorry, sir.”
“ Ah — well,” said Mr. Horace, with a
sigh — “ he was sick a long time. I ought
not to begrudge him his release. Yes, he
had been an invalid for many years. But
he was the bravest of the brave. My bro-
ther was a sailor in his youth. He had
many interesting adventures. He has
told me stories of his adventures by the
hour. But when he came to be an in-
valid, after such an active life, he never
flinched. The bravest of the brave !”
“ My father was brave,” said Lucy.
“ My brother had been in most foreign
lands,” Mr. Horace went on. “He was
shipwrecked twice before he was thirty.
I recollect, as well as if it was yesterday,
how he came home after that first time
he was wrecked. We had given him up.
My mother was upstairs cutting out those
little— ah, garments that children wear.
She was cutting out a pair to go in a mis-
sionary barrel. Well, James just walked
into the room, as casually as if he hadn’t
been out of the house. My mother (I
recollect perfectly), she threw up her
hands— she had the scissors on her thumb
and finger— and she said, 4 Why, James,
where on earth did you come from?’ And
my brother, he said: ‘From the waters
under the earth ; from India’s coral
strands,’ he said. (You know the hymn?)
‘But I haven’t any coral, or any clothes
— except what you see,’ he said. 4 1 hope
you’ll give me those things,’ meaning the
— the small garment; and he stood six
feet two!”
Lucy smiled vaguely.
“ It was a joke,” Mr. Horace explained.
“Yes, I see. My father was a good
deal like that, saying funny things.
Thev’re pleasant to live with, such peo-
ple.”
“They are, indeed — they are, indeed,”
Mr. Horace agreed, sighing. “My bro-
Vol. XCVIII.— No. 583.-20
ther’s humor was invincible, perfectly in-
vincible. Why, I recollect perfectly — ”
The story he remembered was not
brilliant humor, but Lucy was as polite
as if it were, and capped it with some-
thing her father had said; and then Mr.
Horace followed quickly with another
“ I remember.” Perhaps they neither of
them really heard what the other said,
but they found infinite relief in speaking.
Why Mr. Horace could not have “recol-
lected perfectly ” to Dr. Lavendar, or
why little Lucy could not have talked, if
not to her sister, at least to her kindly
brother-in-law, is one of those inexplicable
things that belong to grief. It was easier
for each because the other was a stran-
ger.
When the stage pulled into Mercer, the
wheels tired in mud, and the apron over
the trunks streaming with rain, the two
travellers were talking very freely. In-
deed, Lucy had gone so far as to say that
she was going to give music lessons.
“ I’m going to visit Miss Sarah Murray
first. When I get some pupils, I’ll board
somewhere,” she added, vaguely.
44 My brother Jim knew the Misses Mur-
ray,” said Mr. Horace. “I have heard
him remark that Miss Sarah, the eldest,
was a very genteel and accomplished fe-
male. My brother Jim expressed it more
as a sailor might,” Mr. Horace amended,
with a smile, 44 but his words were to
that effect.” And when he helped his
fellow- passenger and the canary-bird out
of the stage, he said, with pleasant, old-
fashioned politeness, that if the Misses
Murray were agreeable, he would call the
next day and pay his respects to them
and to Miss Lucy.
44 I’d like you to come, sir,” Lucy said.
“ I’d like to show you a letter our minister
wrote about father.”
And Mr. Horace remembered that he
had some letters too. It came into his
mind that perhaps some day he would
read them; perhaps he would show some
of them to this young lady, who, he was
sure, would have admired Jim. “Jim
was a great favorite with the ladies,” he
thought to himself, sighing and smiling.
V.
“I recollect, just as if it were yester-
day, when my brother James brought
home from one of his voyages a little
savage — a heathen, in fact. My mother
was exceedingly alarmed about his spirit-
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ual state; but Woolly (that was what my
brother James called him) was converted
immediately. My brother said it was be-
cause my mother gave him a cake when-
ever he named our Saviour. And I some-
times feared there was truth in this re-
mark.”
Lucy laughed, and Mr. Horace looked
pleased, and patted her hand kindly.
Miss Sarah and Miss Emily Murray, who
were sitting on either side of the fire,
smiled, and Miss Sarah observed that mis-
sionaries often used such methods as
food and glass beads to attract poor sav-
ages.
“My brother said that just before he
landed he suddenly realized that Woolly
had to have clothes; you know, being a
savage and a heathen, he had no gar-
ments of any kind. In fact, he was — ah
— if I may say so — quite — quite, as you
may say, undressed. My brother knew
that, such being the case. Woolly would
be conspicuous when the ship should come
into port and the poor savage land at the
wharf. So what did my brother Janies
do but make Woolly lie down, with his
arms extended, on a piece of cloth spread
on the deck; then he took up a lump of
chalk and outlined him, as it were; then
he doubled the cloth and cut this out like
those paper dolls which are made for in-
fants out of newspapers; and he sewed
Woolly into these two pieces. Dear me!
I wish you could have seen him! How
my mother did laugh ! 4 1 wouldn’t give
a fig for your sewing, James,’ says she.
4 But my sewing gives a fig leaf to Wool-
ly,’says my brother. James had such a
ready tongue.”
“The suit must have fitted very badly,”
Lucy said, seriously.
“Yes,” Mr. Horace admitted; 44 but it
was warm, you know, and— ah— custom-
ary.”
“Oh yes, of course,” said Lucy.
It was with tales like this that old
Horace Shields tried to cheer his little
companion when he came to see her at
the Misses Murray’s. He had decided not
to continue his journey East to purchase
stock, but to order by mail from Mercer,
where, he thought, he would remain for
a few days and see if he could not com-
fort this poor child, who seemed, some-
how. to be on his hands. But lie staid
nearly three weeks. He came to call al-
most every day, and the estimable Misses
Murray welcomed him warmly, and told
him that they were much grieved at the
depression of their young friend. 44 And
indeed,” said kind old Miss Sarah, “I fear
I must add that I do not approve of the
apparent indifference dear Lucy displays
towards her sister. Lucy says that Martha
doesn’t like her canary-bird; — which is
really a foolish reason for not wishing to
live with her. It almost looks like tem-
per. I think, however, your conversa-
tion cheers her, and when she is less de-
pressed she may come to a more proper
mind in regard to her family.”
Mr. Horace certainly did cheer the
frightened, hopeless girl; and sometimes
his own burden seemed lightened in his
effort to lighten hers. In telling her his
stories about his brother, lie led her to
talk about her father, and then about her
own affairs; and the third time he called,
when they chanced to be alone, she told
him, palpitating and determined, that she
would 44 never, never, never go back and
live with her sister, because she would
not be a burden on brother Willy.”
44 But, my dear young lady,” he remon-
strated, “you cannot live alone here in
Mercer, you know.”
44 Oh, yes, yes,” said poor little Lucy,
44 1 know; but I won’t go back to sister
Martha.”
“But what will you do, my dear Miss
Lucy?” Mr. Horace said, anxiously.
44 Oh, I don’t know!” cried poor Lucy;
and her big deerlike eyes had a hunted
look in them that went to the old gentle-
man’s heart. He made a point of seeing
the Misses Murray by themselves, and
they all talked the matter over with anx-
ious seriousness.
44 It is impossible for her to get pupils.”
Miss Sarah said; 44 she is not the sort of
a young woman who can push and make
her own way.”
44 1 am not* sure she is not more pleas-
ing on that account,” Miss Emily said,
with decision.
Mr. Horace nodded his head, and said
his brother James had always disliked
excessively capable ladies. “My brother
James said he wouldn’t want to sit down
at table three times a day with a horse
marine,” he said, chuckling; — 44 not but
what he had great respect for intelli-
gence,” he added, politely.
And the Misses Murray said, Oh, yes,
indeed ; they quite understood. And
then they begged Mr. Horace, who was
returning to Old Chester the next day, to
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correspond with them on the subject, so
that they might advise the child wisely.
Mr. Horace promised to do so; and he
put his miiul upon Lucy’s troubles dur-
ing the tiresome stage journey. He won-
dered what Jim would say about it all.
Jim had his opinion of Mrs. Willy; Mr.
Horace chuckled as he thought of it.
“Estimable woman,” said Mr. Horace to
himself, “very estimable; but not agree-
able. Poor Miss Lucy !”
He thought of her with an impulsive
pity which brought out the youth of his
ruddy old face — that fine youth of the
soul which cannot be touched by the
body's age. Her grief for her father was
but a child's grief, he thought, a half-
smile on his lips; it was not the iron en-
tering into the soul; but it was pathetic.
He thought how she had showed him
some letters of condolence that had been
sent her, and that made him think, sud-
denly, of the letters that had come to him.
It occurred to him, with a warm feeling
of satisfaction, that when he got home he
would unlock the drawer in the shop and
take out that pile of letters, and perhaps
lie might send one or two to Miss Lucy.
He thought of them eagerly as he walk-
ed up from the tavern to his own door;
they were like a welcome waiting for him
iu the desolate old house.
Old Chester was full of tranquil even-
ing light. Behind the low dark line of
the hills the daffodil sky was brightening
into gold ; there had been a shower in the
afternoon, and the fresh damp air was
sweet with the linden blossoms; there
were little pools of water shining in hol-
lows of the worn flagstone pavement, and
the brass stair rails and knobs of the
comfortable old brick houses glittered,
suddenly, all the way down Main Street.
Mr Horace found himself smiling as he
walked: then he stopped with a start be-
cause Martha King spoke to him ; she
called from the other side of the street,
and then came hurrying across.
“I'm glad to see you back, Mr. Hor-
ace/’ she said, and asked one or two
questions about Lucy and the Misses Mur-
ray. “ We've missed the shop, Mr. Hor-
ace,” she ended. “ Mrs. Todd, I &m sorry
to say, has been remiss about keeping it
open. I do hope you will speak to her
about it, flatly and frankly. I think it is
a duty not to slight wrong-doing. She
bas not kept regular hours at all,” Mrs.
King said, “and it has been a great an-
noyance. Won't you come in and take
tea with us, Mr. Horace?”
“No, ma’am, I thank you,” he said,
and hurried into his house. “ Poor Miss
Lucy!” he said to himself; “poor Miss
Lucy!”
She was in his thoughts when, sitting
all alone in the shop, with his lamp on
the desk beside him, he took out the let-
ters which had been put away all these
months. After all, these old friends loved
James. “And well they might!” he told
himself, proudly. He opened one letter
after another, and read the friendly, ap-
preciative words, nodding and sighing,
and saying to himself, “Yes, indeed!
Yes, he was brave! he was patient. Who
knows that as well as I do?” The comfort
of it came warmly to his heart, and the
applause braced and cheered him until,
for very happiness and pride, two little
hot tears trickled down his cheeks and
splashed on the pile of letters.
But when he went up stairs into the
silent house, into the dreadful emptiness
of that room where James had lived for
nearly thirty years — the old despair of
desolation seized him again. It was that
which, by-and-by, made him say he would
go back to Mercer for a few days, and see
what the Misses Murray had done for
Miss Lucy. He wanted to get away from
the house — anywhere! He thought to
himself that he would take the letters to
read to Miss Lucy; she had been so in-
terested in Jim that she ought to know
that his praise had not been merely bro-
therly regard. “And I am really anx-
ious to know what the poor young lady
is going to do,” he said to himself, when,
to the astonishment of Old Chester, lie
again took the stage for Mercer.
“Twice in two months!” said Old Ches-
ter; but Mrs. Todd, who, in spite of Mrs.
King’s warning, was again to keep the
shop open for his few days of absence,
said it was a real good tiling, and would
do the poor old gentleman good.
VI.
’ Little Lucy had not secured a single
pupil during the weeks she had been in
Mercer. She was well aware she could
not prolong her visit to the kind Misses
Murray indefinitely, but what was she
going to do? Poor child! how many
times a day did she ask herself this ques-
tion! The very afternoon of Mr. Hor-
ace’s return she had gone out and walked
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hopelessly about until dusk in Mercer’s
dirty, busy streets, to think it over. The
wind whirled up the street and caught
her black skirts in a twist, and flung the
dust into her face and into her eyes. The
lights began to twinkle along the bridge
that spanned the river, and then wavered
down into its black depths in golden zig-
zags. Against the sullen sky the fur-
naces flared with great tongues of flame
and showers of sparks. The evening traf-
fic of the town, noisy, dirty, hideous;
the hurrying crowds in the streets; the
rumble of the teams; the jostling of
workmen— all gave her a sense of her
utter helplessness, so that the tears be-
gan to start, and she had to wipe them
away furtively. What was going to be-
come of her? The child, walking alone
in the spring dusk, looked down at the
river, and thought that the water was
very black and very cold. I don’t sup-
pose she formulated any purpose in her
own mind; she only thought, shivering,
“ The water is very cold.”
Mr. Horace met her there on the bridge,
and there was something about her that
made the old gentleman’s heart come up
in his throat. He took her hand and put
it through his arm, and said, cheerfully,
44 Come with me, my dear Miss Lucy, and
let us walk home together.”
As for Lucy, she only said, feebly, “ I
wont go back to sister Martha .”
44 You sha’n’t, my dear,” said Mr. Hor-
ace, comfortingly ; “you sha’n’t indeed.”
That evening he talked the situation
over with Miss Sarah Murray; but she
only shook her head and said she hoped
the child would soon look at the matter
more reasonably. 44 1 would gladly keep
her here indefinitely,” Miss Sarah said,
in a troubled way, “but our income is
exceedingly limited — ”
44 Oh, certainly not, certainly not,”
Mr. Horace broke in. He had come to
feel responsible for Lucy, somehow; he
could not have her dependent upon Miss
Murray.
He got up and said good-night with a
very correct bow, his feet in the first po-
sition for dancing, his left hand under
his coat tails.
Old Miss Sarah responded in kind, and
they parted with high opinions of each
other.
But Mr. Horace had not reached the
street corner before he heard, “ Mr.
Shields! Mr. Shields!” and there was
Lucy running after him, bareheaded, and
with a shawl about her shoulders.
“I’ve thought of something,” she said,
breathlessly, as she stood beside him, pant-
ing, under the gas-lamp on the corner.
44 Can’t I come and take care of the shop,
Mr. Shields? Can’t I live with you and
take care of the shop?”
Mr. Horace, in his eagerness to hurry
her back to the house, hardly knew what
lie answered. “Yes, yes, my dear young
lady. Anything that you wish. Come,
now, come ! you must get in doors. What
will Miss Murray say?”
“I am to come and live with you?”
Lucy insisted, her eyes wide and fright-
ened. 44 You won’t make me go back to
sister Martha?”
44 No, my dear; no, no!” he said. It
seemed to Mr. Horace as though Miss
Sarah was an hour i ti opening the door.
“Miss Lucy just stepped out to speak to
me,” he said, in answer to her astonished
look.
44 Oh, Miss Sarah, I am going to live
with Mr. Shields!” said Lucy.
Mr. Shields came very early the next
morning to Miss Murray's house, and was
received in the parlor by Miss Sarah.
Lucy was not present. Miss Sarah sat in
a straight-backed chair, with her delicate
old hands crossed in her lap. There was
some color in her cheek, and a determined
look behind her spectacles.
44 1 trust,” said Mr. Horace, 44 that Miss
Lucy is none the worse for stepping out
last night, ma’am? I was much concern-
ed about her when I left her.”
“She is none the worse in body, but
I am deeply grieved at her attitude of
mind,” said Miss Sarah.
44 You mean her unwillingness to re-
turn to her sister?” he said, anxiously.
Old Miss Sarah blushed. 44 She was
quite determined to — to ask your aid.
The child did not realize — ”
44 You don’t say so!”
44 She needs to be takeu care of just as
much as if she were a baby,” said Miss
Sarah. 44 But of course this plan of hers
is impossible. Even if it were not a
questiorf of burdening you (she has an
idea that she would earn her board, if I
may so express it), it would be impossible.
I have pointed this out to her.”
“And what does she say?” demanded
Mr. Horace.
“She merely weeps,” Miss Sarah said;
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“she has given it up at my request, of
course, but she weeps.”
Mr. Horace hunted for his handker-
chief, and blew his nose violently.
“Dear, dear!” he said, “you don’t say
so! Well, well ! I wish my brother James
were here. He would know what to pro-
pose. Poor child ! poor child I”
Mr. Horace got up and looked out of
the window; then he blew his nose again.
Miss Sarah looked at the back of his
head, but was silent. Suddenly he turn-
ed. and came and stood beside her.
“ Miss Murray, you are a female of ad-
vanced years and of every proper senti-
ment; all I have seen of you leads me to
feel a deep esteem for you.” Miss Sarah
bowed. “Therefore I ask you, is it im-
possible? I could give the child a good
home while I live. I have recently lost
mv brother, ma'am, and the little income
devoted to his use could be transferred to
Miss Lucy. I find myself much attached
to her, and would be pleased to have her
in my home. It would be less lonely for
me,” he said, his voice tremulous; “ and
my age, ma’am, is sixty-five. Surely it is
not impossible?'’
Miss Sarah, who was nearly-eighty, grew
red, but she was firm. 44 My dear sir, you
are still young ” — Mr. Horace blinked
suddenly, and sat up straight— “ our friend
is twenty-three, and her looks are pleas-
ing. Need I add that this is a wicked
world? I have lived much longer than
you, sir, and I am aware that it is both
wicked and censorious. Can you say
tii at Old Chester is exempt from gossip,
Mr. Shields?'’
“ No. ma'am. I can't,” he admitted, with
an unhappy look.
" You see it is impossible.” Miss Sarah
ended, kindly.
Mr. Horace sighed.
Miss Murray looked at him and cough-
ed: then she drew in her breath as one
who prepares to strike. “ If you were
sufficiently advanced in years, my dear
sir. so that— matrimony was out of the
question, it would he different.” Mr. Hor-
ace gasped. “ But under the circum-
stances," continued Miss Sarah, sighing,
“I see nothing before our young friend
(since she is determined not to return to
her sister) but work in some — factory.”
Miss Murray's house was in the old-fash-
ioned part of Mercer, and there was a fac-
tory just across the street; she waved her
band toward it, genteelly, as she spoke.
The room was quite still except for a
coal dropping from the grate. Mr. Horace
heard a footstep overhead, and knew it
was Lucy walking restlessly about in her
pitiful, unreasoning misery. Involunta-
rily he followed Miss Murray’s gesture, and
looked across the street. Two draggled-
looking girls were just entering the bleak
doorway opposite. “Little Miss Lucy do
that? No ! — impossible !”
“Iam sixty-five; I shall not, probably,
live very much longer, ”he thought. “Sup-
pose it were five years, even ; she would
still be a young woman.”
Poor little girl! poor little frighten-
ed, helpless child ! “And I would be less
lonely,” he said to himself, suddenly.
“Jim would call me an old fool, but he
would be glad to have me less lonely.”
Mr. Horace drew a long breath.
“ Miss Murray,” he said, “ would I be
taking advantage of our friend’s youth
and inexperience if I — if I — if I suggest-
ed— matrimony?”
Miss Sarah was not at all startled; in-
deed, she even smiled.
44 1 think,” she said, “it would be an
admirable arrangement.”
Mr. Horace looked at her; she looked
at him. And then they began to talk in
whispers, like two con spira 101*8. “ But
would she — ” began Mr. Horace.
“I'm sure of it!”
“ But she is so young — ”
“She will outlive you.”
“I would not wish to take advantage—”
“ You are only doing a kindness.”
“ Her relatives — ”
“ Her relatives have driven her to it!”
cried Miss Sarah. Which was really
rather hard on Martha and on Lucy's
kind and affectionate brother-in-law.
“Well, we'll protect her,” said Mr.
Horace, angrily. And then he suddenly
looked blank, and said: “Would you —
ah — be willing to — to suggest it to her?
I feel a sense of embarrassment.”
44 That is quite unnecessary,” Miss Mur-
ray declared, 44 for you are doing a great
favor; and if I know Lucy, her gratitude
will not be lacking. But I will gladly
tell her of your kindness.”
“Oh, pray don’t say gratitude,” Mr.
Horace protested, growing red; “don't
say kindness. Let her regard it as a fa-
vor to me, which it is. i assure you it is.”
Miss Murray rose, smiling; and Mr.
Horace went away with a new and ex-
traordinary sensation. There was Some-
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thing in his thoughts that came be-
tween him and his grief; a sense of ex-
citement, of chivalry, of hope— even of
hope I He found himself making plans
as he walked along the street; he saw
Lucy in his mind's eye at his lonely sup-
per table; lie fancied her sitting beside
him in the dreadful evenings listening
to his stories of Jim — it seemed to Mr.
Horace as though his fund of anecdotes
of Mr. James was in exhaustible; he im-
agined her reading Jim’s books, and
laughing in her light girlish voice as Jim
used to laugh in his rollicking bass. His
heart grew warm and light in his breast
as he walked and thought; and then sud-
denly it sunk: perhaps she would not
consent.
VII.
But Lucy consented— eagerly, feverish-
ly. “Oh, Miss Sarah, how kind he is!”
she said.
“ Very true, Lucy, very true,” said Miss
Sarah, solemnly. “I hope you will al-
ways remember it. Very few gentlemen,
Lucy, of Mr. Shields's age would think of
such a thing. I hope you will realize
that to ask a young, inexperienced, fool-
ish (yes, Lucy, I fear I must say foolish)
girl to — ah— to bear his name, is indeed
a compliment.”
“ I will take care of the shop,” said
Lucy, her eyes beginning to shine, and
the droop of face and figure fadiug as
she spoke. “Oh, he is so kind! And I
will never go near Martha!”
Mr. Horace came for his answer at two
o’clock; he had settled down into feeling
quite sure that it was impossible, and that
he and Miss Sarah must think of some-
thing else, and when Lucy met him,
smiling and half crying, and saying,
“You are so kind to me, Mr. Shields; and
indeed, indeed I will do all I can to de-
serve it,” he was almost dazed with as-
tonishment. He protested that it was a
great favor.
“I am so much older, my dear,” he
said.
But Lucy broke in, smiling, “You are
good to me, just as father was.”
“I will be good to you, my dear; I
will indeed, to the best of my ability,”
he said, earnestly. He smiled at her and
patted her hand; and then he said, “I
will communicate with your relatives, my
dear Miss Lucy.”
“ Oh no,” Lucy said, shrinking, “ don't
tell them !”
But Miss Murray shook her head: “ Mr.
Shields must of course refer to your fam-
ily for permission.”
Lucy looked frightened. “Martha
won’t allow it,” she said, faintly. “Oh,
don’t tell Martha!”
“My dear, I could not allow you to
elope,” Miss Sarah remonstrated.
And Mr. Shields said, “No, no; that
wouldn’t do!”
Then the two elders talked it over,
Lucy listening and shivering, and saying
sometimes, “Oh, Martha will say I’ll be
a burden to you, Mr. Shields.”
“I am prepared,” Mr. Horace said to
Miss Murray, “to have them say I am
far too old, and even that I am taking
advantage of our young friend. But I
am sustained,” said Mr. Horace, “by the
knowledge of the integrity of my mo-
tives. Miss Lucy is of age, and if she
chooses ray home it is not the affair of
William’s wife, or even of William, for
whom I have a sincere regard. But I am
inclined to think, ma’am, that it will per-
haps be wise to— to bring this matter to a
head — if I may so express it— before they
have a chance to interfere. I will com-
municate with William and his wife; but
before they can remonstrate we will take
steps, we will take steps! What do you
think of that, ma’am?”
“ Admirable !” said Miss Murray. “ Ad-
mirable!”
“ However,” said Mr. Horace, blinking
his eyes suddenly, as though something
cold had been thrown in his face, “it
will be very unexpected in Old Ches-
ter!’
It was unexpected. Old Chester, too,
gasped and blinked as though it had had
a cold douche.
Willy King was angry; but Martha,
very sensibly, said that it was foolish to
be angry. “But I am mortified,” she
said; “and I don’t understand it.”
Old Chester, when it heard the news,
nearly went out of its mind with agita-
tion and disapproval — “and sorrow,”
Mrs. Drayton said, “that the dead were
soon forgotten !” Mrs. Dale said that Mr.
Horace had taken advantage of that poor,
poor child's youth. Mrs. Wright, on the
contrary, felt that it was really disgust-
ing to see a girl so mercenary as to mar-
ry an old man for a home. Mrs. Ezra
Barkley said, gently, that he had been
so lonely, poor Mr. Horace ! no doubt he
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159
just couldn’t stand the desolation of his
life.
“But that doesn’t explain the other
fool.” her sister-in-law interrupted, with a
snort.
“Do you know what 'Dr. Lavendar
said when he heard it?” Rose Knight
asked, suddenly. “He said, ‘Hooray for
Horace !’ ”
“Dr. Lavendar is getting very old,”
said Mrs. Dale, sternly.
After the first excitement of it was
over, it came to Martha King’s ears that
Lucy had married to escape living with
her (those things always leak out; some
friend, with a frankness as conscientious
as Martha’s own, probably “thought
Lucy’s sister should be told”).
When poor Martha heard why Lucy
had committed this extraordinary folly,
she turned white, smitten into silence.
“I tried to do my duty,” she said, pain-
full}', and made no reproaches. But she
suffered. “ I did everything I could for
her best good,” she said to herself as she
sat alone working; then she wiped her
eyes furtively on the unbleached cotton
siieet she was hemming for the mission-
ary barrel. “Lucy doesn’t love me,”
she thought, sadly ; “nobody does but
William. But I’ve always tried to do my
duty.” Once, blunderingly, looking down
at her fingers trembling in her lap, she
said something like this to Dr. Laven-
dar.
“Martha, my dear,” he said, gravely,
“ love more , and do less. Do you remem-
ber Isaiah (and he was a pretty energetic
old fellow too) says, ’their strength is to
sit still’? Our Heavenly Father is just
as anxious to improve things as we are;
but if you’ll notice, He lets us make our
blunders, and learn our lessons; and He
works by love oftener than by the thun-
ders of Sinai. But come, come! We all
love you, and Lucy will know that she
does too, one of these days.”
But how happily it did turn out! Mr.
Horace lived more than the five years he
had allowed himself; and no wonder,
with the affection his little girl gave him,
and the need there was to take care of
her and keep her happy; a man really
can’t die, no matter how good his inten-
tions are, while he is needed. And, be-
sides that, Lucy’s eager, childlike sym-
pathy was like some pure and healing
touch. Gradually he took up old inter-
ests, and liked to meet old friends. His
grief for his brother passed down through
the ruined habits of living into the depths
of life, and, after a while, settled into a
habit of its own. Then the old interests
closed in upon him— just as a ruffled pool
smooths and closes over the crash that
has shattered its even silver; though all
the while the weight is buried in its
heart.
It was a sunny, placid, happy old house
in those days, though nobody could say
it was sensible. Dick’s cage hung in a
south window, and the little yellow crea-
ture splashed about in his china bath,
and scattered millet seeds, and shouted
his little songs all day long. Lucy used
to come and sit in the shop while she
shelled the pease for dinner, or did her bit
of worsted-work. And she kept things
dusted, not perhaps quite as Martha
would have done; the backs of the pic-
tures may have left something to be de-
sired ; but so long as nobody knew it,
what difference did it make? This lack
of principle must make the conscientious
grieve; but Lucy and old Mr. Horace
were just as happy as though their
principles were good. They talked a
great deal of Mr. Jim. In the evenings
they sat upstairs in the big bare rqom —
a little less bare now, because Lucy made
gay worsted covers for all the chairs;
and Mr. Horace tried to teach her how to
play chess. To be sure, the fool’s or
scholar’s mate might end the game every
night, but it gave him a chance to tell
her of Jim’s prowess. He gave her Jim’s
books to read, and though she did not
know enough to laugh at the right places
in Mr. Jim’s beloved Shandy , she felt a
breathless interest in the Three Musket-
eers; and old Mr. Horace annotated it
with Jim’s comments.
They used to read over those letters of
sympathy, too, which suggested so many
stories of the big. generous, rollicking old
man who had died young that, little by
little, as Mr. Horace told this, or remem-
bered that, or laughed at the other, James
came back into his life. But there was
never any misery in the thought of him ;
only acceptance, and patience, and an
understanding which mere death could
never shako or break. James was dead ;
but what was death between him and
James?
So they went on being happy. And
on winter evenings, or when the summer
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dusk shut down, and Lucy sat playing Lucy’s chatter, or maybe take a hand at
foolish tunes on a little old jingling piano, cribbage.
it was surprising how often a certain ad- In fact, Martha King said that never
mirer of common-sense came poking in since they had been married had William
to smoke with Mr. Horace, and listen to had so many night calls.
A FABLE FOR HEIRESSES.
BY ALICE DUER.
ONCE upon a time there was a King
who had great possessions. Through
the midst of his kingdom a river ran, in
whose broad fertile valley grew great
fields of grain. On each side of this val-
ley the land rose steeply, and forests full
of game stretched for miles and miles.
Beyond this, again, the country grew
wilder and more mountainous, and here,
rumor said, the King had discovered
inexhaustible gold-mines. Certain it is
that the vaults below the palace wrere
piled high with the precious metal.
The palace itself, which was built of
marble, stood on a high promontory of
land that jutted out into the valley, so
that from the terrace you could look far
up and down the river. Within, the
walls were hung with silks and velvets
and the weapons which the King had
taken in battle, for he was a great war-
rior, and had many soldiers and slaves
and horses at his command.
The heir to all this wealth was a wo-
man— the King’s only child. Very many
nobles and princes had sought her hand
in marriage, but as yet not one had found
favor with either the King or his daugh-
ter.
One summer afternoon the Princess
stepped out upon the terrace, and by her
side was Boemund, the Badger. No one
loved the Badger; indeed, he was a pecul-
iarly unlovable animal; but he, first of
all, had shown the King where the gold-
mines were, and the King’s gratitude
denied him nothing.
The eyes of the Princess sought the
road by the river, along which a rejected
suitor and his train were slowly wending
their way, and as she looked she sighed.
“ Ah, Badger,” she said, “ why is it that
I cannot love any of these gentlemen?”
The Badger snorted. “The reason is
simple enough,” he said. “ Because none
of them love you.”
“What do you mean, Boemund?” de-
manded the Princess, severely, for she
was not accustomed to such language,
even from the Badger.
“My meaning is quite clear,” he an-
swered. “Why should they love you?
You are not particularly good, nor par-
ticularly clever, nor at all good-looking.”
Now in her heart the Princess dis-
agreed with all these assertions, especial-
ly the last, but she said, tentatively,
“Don’t you think I have charm, Bad-
ger?”
The Badger snorted again. “Indeed
I do,” he returned, “the greatest a wo-
man can have — the charm of a rich fa-
ther.”
The Princess was naturally indignant.
“ Really, Boemund.” she said, “I think
you are unjust. I think a man who had
never heard of my father might love me
for myself.”
“It is very easily proved,” said the
Badger. “ I will give you three chances.
There are in this kingdom three men to
whom my attention has been directed.
The first is absorbed in himself, the sec-
ond in a science, and the third in another
woman. ' If you can make any of them
love you for yourself, I am perfectly will-
ing to admit I am wrong.”
The Princess felt that the contest which
the Badger proposed was scarcely a fair
one; but she knew that he would sneer at
her if she said so, and therefore she went
in silence and put on a plain dress and
started on her journey.
The first person she met was the man
who was absorbed in himself. He was
sitting on a stone by the river, thiuking.
The Princess went and sat down beside
him, and said, in her most engaging man-
ner,
“Do you think it would be possible to
love me for myself?”
The man merely groaned. “ How can
I tell?” he said. “ I have such a peculiar
disposition.”
He seemed to feel so badly about it that
the Princess was quite distressed, and
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A FABLE FOR HEIRESSES.
161
said, consolingly, “Oil, don’t you believe
that you are very much like everybody
else, really?” She saw at once, however,
that this was a mistake, for he looked at
her reproachfully, and his voice sank with
depression as he answered :
“ I hope not, for the sake of the rest of
the world. If you like,” he added, after
a pause, 44 1 will tell you all about it.”
The Princess answered, politely, that
she would like very much to hear, and
he began:
“ It would have been easy if only I
had married my first love. My nature
was simpler then. But unfortunately I
did not, and ever since I have been grow-
ing more and more complicated, until
now I have so many sides, all highly
developed, that I fear I am incapable of
constancy.” And this thought plunged
him into such a depth of gloom that his
head sank on his hands, and the Princess,
after waiting a little while, despaired of
rousing him, and went on her way.
44 1 do hope the man absorbed in a
science will be a little more amusing than
that,” she thought.
The man absorbed in a science was a
Naturalist, and the Princess found him
gazing at a small hole in the ground.
Ignorant that this was the home of a
snake, she sat down beside him, and ask-
ed as before —
44 Do you think it would be possible to
love me for myself?”
The Naturalist did not look up as he
answered, absently, 44 It is a subject of
which I know nothing.”
44 Perhaps you would know more if you
looked at me and not at the ground,” said
the Princess.
At this the Naturalist withdrew his eyes
from the snake-hole and fixed them upon
the eyes of the Princess. Then he said,
deliberately, “But perhaps then I should
not care so much about knowledge.”
The Princess was delighted. “How
nicely you said that!” she exclaimed.
44 But you have not answered my ques-
tion.”
44 Were I a younge^ man — ” said the
Naturalist. But at this moment there was
a faint rustle in the grass; the snake was
escaping. The Princess screamed, but the
Naturalist was already running after it
as fast as he could. The Princess waited
for his return, but at last, as she saw no
sign of him, she came to the conclusion
that she had failed again. Now only her
Vol. XCVni.-No. 583.-21
last and, as she felt, her least chance re-
mained— the man who was absorbed in
another woman.
As she approached, he was in the act
of pushing his boat into the river, and
she had to call to him from quite a dis-
tance.
44 1 can’t stop now,” he said. “ I have
an engagement.”
“It is with the other woman?” said the
Princess.
The man looked conscious.
“Will nothing induce you to wait?”
asked the Princess.
44 Nothing,” said the man, firmly.
At this the Princess, with great presence
of mind, stepped into the boat and sat
down in the stern.
“ Now,” she said, 44 you may take your
choice between waiting and taking me
with you.”
44 There is another alternative,” said
the man, and wading into the water, he
lifted her out of the boat and set her on
the shore.
The Princess had never been more furi-
ous and delighted.
44 How dare you?” she said.
44 Another time you won’t interfere with
me,” he answered.
At this the Princess burst into tears.
44 How can you bear to be such a brute?”
she sobbed.
44 1 did not mean to hurt you,” he said,
in great distress.
44 It isn’t that,” said the Princess, “but
it is so unkind of you to go, when I only
want to ask you one question.”
44 What is it?” said the man.
44 Do you think it would be possible to
love me for myself?”
44 Possible!” cried the man. 44 If it
weren’t for the other woman, I should
say I did already.”
“Oh, wouldn’t that be nice!” exclaim-
ed the Princess. 44 1 mean, of course, if it
weren’t for the other woman. As it is,
however, I think I must be going.”
44 Already?” said the man.
“It is very dark,” said the Princess.
44 Do you know, I fancy, if it weren’t for
the other woman, I should say I was
afraid to walk home alone. Good-by.”
44 Don’t be absurd,” said the man. 44 Of
course I shall see you home.”
They had not gone far before the Badger
was proved to be entirely in the wrong.
The Princess had found a man who loved
her for herself. She had scarcely assured
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herself of this fact, explained her true
position, and quieted his not unnatural
alarm, when they reached the palace, and
the King, her father, came hurrying to
meet them, accompanied by the Badger.
It appeared that King Conrad of Cour-
tesia, a powerful monarch of a neighbor-
ing kingdom, had arrived, with a great
retinue, to ask her hand in marriage.
“ And it is my desire, my child,” said
the King, “that you accept his proposals.”
“Oh, papa, how cruel you are!” cried
the Princess. “ You would be willing to
sacrifice me to a mere fortune-hunter,
who wants only my possessions.”
“Fortune-hunter!” roared the King.
“ What do you mean by speaking like
that of an illustrious and noble monarch,
who would do you the honor of making
you a Queen ? Who ever supposed he
did not want your possessions?”
“ I like honest men,” said the Princess,
tearfully, glancing at her companion.
“Fiddlesticks!” said the King.
“You can’t have known many,” said
the Badger.
At this the Princess, with great dignity,
swept into the palace to put on her best
clothes, for there was to be a banquet
and ball in honor of King Conrad, and
she had no wish that he should under-
value what could never be his.
When she entered the banquet -hall
she saw, with a sensation that was al-
most regret, that King Conrad of Courte-
sia was one of the most distinguished men
whom she had ever beheld. She noted,
although she firmly refrained from com-
parisons, how well his embroidered white
vejvet fitted his muscular figure. She
observed, too, how enviously many of the
ladies regal’d ed her as he led her to her
place.
For some time she was of necessity so
engaged by the conversation of the King
that she did not notice the man who had
been absorbed in another woman, and
when she did turn her head in his direc-
tion she was pained to observe that the
ladies on either side of him had abandon-
ed all efforts at conversation, and were
with difficulty concealing their yawns,
while he himself seemed to be entirely
absorbed in the excellent fare which was
put? before him.
Following her glance, King Conrad in-
quired his name, with an absence of com-
ment that roused the Princess to add,
somewhat sharply,
“An unusual species— an honest man.”
“An excellent quality,” answered the
King, politely. “How unfortunate that
he should find it incompatible with con-
versation !”
When the ball began, the Princess, as
a matter of course, trod the first measure
with King Conrad; and, indeed, she was
so much pleased with the performance
that she was on the point of repeating it,
when the man who loved her for herself
hurried to her side and insisted, with the
same masterful manner which he had dis-
played in the boat, that she should dance
with him.
For some inexplicable reason the Prin-
cess now found this manner less attrac-
tive, especially when King Conrad with-
drew with great tact, and was soon seen
leading forth one of the most beautiful
of the court ladies.
Besides this, she soon discovered that
the man who loved her for herself did not
dance at all well; and though she could
have forgiven him readily enough for not
having acquired so frivolous an accom-
plishment, she could not excuse his lack
of judgment in attempting to practise it.
In short, before the evening was over
she began to wish the Badger had never
existed, and to think with gentle indul-
gence of the other woman.
The climax was reached the next morn-
ing, when the Princess, looking from her
window, saw the man who loved her for
herself starting out for a ride on her fa-
ther’s favorite war-horse, nor could she
believe that horsemanship had been in-
cluded in his early education.
She ran down stairs in great distress,
and meeting King Conrad in the hall, she
found his manner so sympathetic that she
told him the whole story, with the satis-
factory result that when the man who
loved her for herself returned hot and
dishevelled from his ride, she had already
promised to be Queen of Courtesia, and
the King had volunteered to represent to
his late rival how much more suitable a
person the other woman must be.
So they were jnarried, and every one
lived very happily ever after — every one,
that is to say, with the exception of the
Badger, who for no adequate reason was
sent to live henceforward in the stable.
Unfortunately, as no portrait of the Prin-
cess remains, we are left in ignorance as
to whether or not he was justified in his
low estimate of her charms.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE UTILITARIAN MR. JARLEY.
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
f PHE Christmas season was approaching, and
A Mr. Jarley, who had lately become some-
thing of a philosopher, began to think about
gifts for his wife and children. The more he
thought of them, the more firmly was he con-
vinced that there was something radically
wrung with the system of giving that had pre-
vailed in past years. He conjured np visions
of the useless things he had given and re-
ceived on previous occasions, and an inventory
of his personal receipts at the four celebra-
tions leading up to the present, disclosed the
fact that he was long on match-boxes, cigar-
cases, and smoking- jackets, the last every
one of them too small, with an appalling sup-
ply of knitted and crocheted objects, the gifts
of his children, in reserve. His boot -closet
was a perfect revelation of the misdirected
Christmas energies of the young, disclosing,
as it always did upon occasions when he was
in a great hurry, a half-dozen pairs of worsted
slippers, which lie had received at Yule-tide,
some of them adorned with stags of beads
leaping over zephyr wails, and others made in
the image of cats of extraordinary color, with
yellow glass eyes set in directly over the toe
whereon he kept his favorite corn. I am not
sure that it was not the stepping of an awk-
ward visitor upon one of these same glass eyes,
while these slippers for the first time covered
his feet, that set Mr. Jarley to cogitating upon
the hollowness of 44 Christmas as She is Cele-
brated.’’ Indeed, it is my impression that at
the very moment when that bit of adornment
was pressed dow n upon Mr. Jarley ’s corn he
announced rather forcibly his disbelief in the
utility of any such infernal Christmas present
ta that. And as time weut on, and that of-
fend ing, staring slipper slipped iuto his hand
every time he searched the closet in the dark
for a left patent-leather pump, or some other
missing hit of foot-gear, the conviction grew
upou him that of the great reforms of which
the world stood in crying need, the reforma-
tion of the Christmas gift was possibly the
most important.
The idea grew to be a mania witli him, and
he gradually developed into a utilitarian of
the moat pronounced type. Nothing in the
world so suited him as an object, homely or
otherwise, that could be used for something ;
the things that were used for uotliing had no
attractions for him. After this he developed
further, and discovered new uses for old ob-
jects. Mrs. Jarley’s parlor vases were turned
into receptacles for matches, or papers, accord-
ing to their size. The huge Satsuma vase be-
came a more or less satisfactory bill-file; and
the cloisonne jar, by virtue of its great dura-
bility, Mr. Jarley used as a receptacle for the
family golf-balls, much to the trepidation of
his good wife, who considered that the vase,
like some women, had in its beauty a sufficient
cause for existence, and who would have pre-
ferred going without golf forever to the de-
struction of her treasured bit of bric-Abrac.
Mrs. Jarley did her best to stay the steady
advance in utilitarianism of her husband.
She could bide with him in most matters. In
fact, until it came to the use of the cloisonne
for a golf- ball reservoir, she considered the
idea at least harmless, and was forced to ad-
mit that it indeed held mauy good points.
44 I think it is perfectly proper,” she said, 44 to
consider all things from the point of view of
their utility. I do not believe in sending a
ball-dress to a poor womau who is starving or
suffering for want of coal, but I must say,
John, that you carry your theory too far when
yon iusist on using an object for some pur-
pose for which it was manifestly never made.”
44 But who is to say what a thing is mani-
festly made fort” demanded Jarley. 44 You
don’t know, or at least you can’t say positive-
ly, what one of mauy possible uses the de-
signer and maker of auy object bad in mind
when he designed and made that especial ob-
ject. This particular vase was fashioned by
a heatheu. It is beautiful aud graceful, but
beyond producing something beautiful and
graceful, how can you say what other notion
that heathen had as to its possible useful ness f
He may have made it to hold Dowers. He may
have intended it for a water-jug. He may
have considered it a suitable receptacle in
which its future favored owner might keep
his tobacco, or his opium, or any one of the
thousand and one things that you can put in
a vase with a hope of getting it out again.”
44 Well, we know he didn’t intend it for golf-
balls, anyhow,” said Mrs. Jarley. 44 For the
very simple reason that the heathen don’t play
golf.”
44 They inay play some kind of a game which
is a heathen variation of golf,” observed Mr.
Jarley, coldly.
44 That couldn’t be,” persisted Mrs. Jarley.
44 Judging from the effect of Sunday golf-play-
ing on church attendance, I don’t thiuk any-
thing more completely pagan than golf could
be found. However — ”
44 But the fact remains, my dear,” Jarley in-
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
164
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
terrupted, “ that while we may surmise prop-
erly enough that the original maker of an ob-
ject did not intend it to be used for certain
purposes, you cannot say positively, because
you don’t know that your surmise is abso-
lutely correct.”
“ But I think you can,” said Mrs. Jarley.
“ In fact I w ill say positively that the man
who made our new frying-pan made it to fry
things in, and not to be used in connection
with a tack-hammer as a dinner-gong. I know
that the hardware people who manufactured
our clothes - boiler, down in the laundry, did
not design it as a toy bass-druqi for the chil-
dren to bang on on the morning of the Fourth
of July. I would make a solemn affidavit to
the fact that the maker of a baby-carriage
never dreamed of its possible use as au im-
promptu toboggan for a couple of small boys
to coast down hill on in midsummer. Yet
these things have been used for these various
purposes in our own household experience. A
megaphone can be used as a beehive, and a
hammock cau be turned into a fly-net for a
horse, but you never think of doing so ; and,
furthermore, you can say positively that while
the things may be used for these purposes, the
original maker never, never, never thought
of it.”
“ Nonsense,” said Jarley, wilting a little.
“ Nonsense. You argue just like a woman — ”
“ I think that was what I was designed for,”
laughed Mrs. Jarley. “ Of course I do.”
“Oh! but what I mean is that you take ut-
terly ridiculous and extreme cases. The things
never could happen. Who’d ever dream of
making a beehive out of a megaphone?”
“ Oh, I think it might occur to the same in-
genious mind that discovered that a cloisonne
vase would hold golf-balls securely,” smiled
Mrs. Jarley.
Jarley laughed. “There you go again,”
he said. “ I wouder why women can’t argue
without becoming ridiculous? It would be
mighty poor economy to pay $4 for a megaphone
as a substitute for a $2 beehive.”
“ That is true,” said Mrs. Jarley. “ I never
thought of that.”
“ Of course you didn’t,” retorted Jarley, tri-
umphantly. • “ Of course you didn’t; and that’s
what I mean when I say you argue like a wo-
man. Yon get hold of what seems on the sur-
face to be a regular solar plexus retort, aud
fail to see how it becomes a boomerang before
you can say Jack Robinson.”
“I suppose if I hadn’t been worried about
the vase I would have thought of it, ’’said Mrs.
Jarley, meekly. “ It worries me to sec a $150
vase used for a purpose that a fifty-cent calico
hag would serve quite as well.”
Jarley glanced searcliingly at his wife.
“Well — ah — hem!” he said. “Quite right,
my dear, quite right. I think, on the whole,
you would better get the calico bag.”
For a few days after this little discussion
Jarley was very reticent about his utilitarian
ideas. The more he thought of his wife’s re-
tort the less secure he felt in his own position,
and he was very sorry he had spoken about
boomerangs and solar -plexus retorts. But
with time he recovered his equanimity, and
early in December returned to his old ways.
“ I’ve just been up in the attic,” he said to
his wife oue Sunday afternoon, when he ap-
peared on the scene rather dusty of aspect.
“ There’s a whole lot of useful stuff up there
going to waste. I found four old beaver hats,
any oue of which would make a very good
waste-basket for the spare bedroom if it was
suitably trimmed; aud I don’t see why you
don’t take these straw hats of mine and make
work-baskets of them.”
Here he held out two relics of bygone fash-
ions to his wife. Mrs. Jarley took them si-
lently. She was so filled with suppressed
laughter over her husband’s suggestions that
6be hardly dared to speak lest she should give
way to her mirth, and a man does not gener-
ally appreciate mirth at his own expense after
he has been rummaging in an attic for an hour
or more, filling his lungs aud coveriug his
clothes and hands with dust.
However, after a moment she managed to
blurt out, “ Perhaps I can make one of them
dainty enough to send to your mother for her
Christmas present.”
“I was about to suggest that very same
thing,” said Jarley, brushing the dust from his
sleeve. “Either you could send it or Mollie”
— Mollie was Mr. Jarley ’s small daughter. “ I
think Mollie’s grandmother would be more
pleased with a gift of that kind than with one
of the useless little fallals that children give
their grandparents on Christmas day. What
did she give her last year?”
The question was opportune, for it gave
Mrs. Jarley a chance to laugh outright with
some other ostensible object than her husband.
She availed herself of the chance, threw her
head back, and shook convulsively.
“ She sent her a ball of shaving-paper,” Mrs.
Jarley said.
A faint smile flitted over Jarley’s face.
“ Well, it might have beeu worse,” he said.
“She can use it for curling- paper.” He
paused a moment. Then he said : “ I want to
say to you, my dear, that — ah — I want Christ-
mas celebrated this year after my plan of
selection. Instead of squandering our hard-
earned dollars on things no sensible person
wants and none can use, we will consider, first
of all, practical utility.”
“ Very well,” sighed Mra. Jarley. “ I quite
agree as far as yon and I are concerned — but
how about the children? I don’t think Tom-
mie would feel very happy to wake up on
Christmas morning aud fiud a pair of suspend-
ers and a new suit of clothes under the tree.
He needs both, but he wants tin soldiers. Aud
as for Mollie, she expects a doll.”
“Well, I don’t wish to be hard on the chil-
dren,” said Mr. Jarley, “ but now is the time
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE drawer;
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Digitized by GO^ 'jk'' V
V. * .’i Qrijgihal from
•'UNty'ERS'tiY :0F MICHf
166
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
china for the diuiug- room,” said Mr. Jar-
ley.
44 Aud it was just what I needed; ” said Mrs.
Jarley, happily. 44 And now, children, go lip
stairs, and bring down your preseuts for your
father.”
The children sped noisily out of the room
and up the stairs.
“I hope you impressed it on their minds
that I wanted nothing useless?” said Jarley.
“ I did,” said Mrs. Jarley. 44 I explained the
whole thing to them, and told them what they
might expect to receive. Then I gave them
each ten dollars of the money they’d saved,
and let them go shopping on their own account.
I don’t know what they bought you, but it’s
something huge.”
Mrs. Jarley had hardly finished when the
two giggling tots came into the room carrying
with difficulty a parcel, which, as Mrs. Jarley
had said, was indeed huge. Mr. Jarley eyed it
with curiosity as the string was unfastened
and the package burst open.
“There,” cried Tommie, breathlessly. 44 It’s
all for you, pa, from Mollie and me.”
The two children stood to one side. Mrs.
Jarley appeared surprised iu an amused fash-
ion, while Jarley stood appalled at what lay
before him, as well he might; for the package
contained a great wax doll with deep staring
blue eyes, a small doll’s house with two floors
iu it and a front door that opened, china and
chairs and table and bureaus in miniature to
furnish the house — indeed, all the parapherna-
lia of a well-ordered residence for a French
doll. Besides these were two boxes of tin sol-
diers, cannon, tents, swords, a fully equipped
lead army, a mechanical fish, and a small zinc
steamboat, suitable for a cruise iu a bath-tub.
Jarley looked at the children, and the chil-
dren looked at Jarley.
44 Why,” said lie, as soon as he could recover
his equanimity, 44 there must be some mistake.”
14 No,” said Mollie. “We picked ’em out ba-
you ourselves. We thought you’d need ’em.”
Mrs. Jarley turned away to cough slightly.
“ Need them?” demanded Jarley, with a per-
plexed frown. “ When ?”
44 Oh — to-morrow,” said Tommie.
44 What for?” demanded Jarley.
44 IVhif, to give to m#, of courttvf said the chil-
dren iu chorus.
44 My dear,” said Jarley, two hours later, after
the children had retired, *• I’ve lieeti thinking
this thing over.”
44 Yes?” said Mrs. Jarley.
44 Yes,” said Jarley; 44 and I’ve made up my
mind that those children of ours are born gen-
iuses. I don’t believe, after all, they could
have selected anything which would he
more satisfactorily useful in the present emer-
gency.”
44 Well,” observed Mrs. Jarley, quietly, 4* I
don’t either. I thought so at the time when
they asked my permission to do their shopping
at the International Toy Bazar.”
44 It’s a solar- plexus retort, just the same,”
said Jarley, as he shook his head and went to
bed. 44 1 think on the 1st of January, if you
have no objections, Mrs. Jarley, I will forswear
utilitarianism — and you may remove the golf-
halls from the cloisonne vase as soon as you
choose.”
ON CHRISTMAS EVE.
BY GUY WETMORE CARRYL.
If good St. Nicholas should come
Across the whitened roofs to-night,
A host of treasures bringing from
Ilis distant Castle of Delight;
If he should come, as once lie came,
And at mv chimney- top draw rein.
That I my dearest wi.-di might name
As if I were a child again:
Of all the good and gracious store,
Wherewith the hearts of men he cheers,
One thing alone I’d covet more
Than all the gifts of all the years;
One thing could give the Christmas bells
The sweetness of their old refrain,
And fill the night with fairy spells,
As if I were a child again.
What matters it, dear love of mine.
That you were only eight or so,
And I a little lad of nine.
That night beneath the mistletoe?
The magic of it lingers yet.
And all the waiting and the pain
At thought thereof I can forget,
As if I wen* a child again.
Once more, as in the long ago,
On Christmas eve with you to stand
Alone beneath the mistletoe,
To see your eyes, to touch your hand :
Ah, could the Saint but grant me this,
I would not say. with fine disdain,
“ L think I'm ’most too old to kiss,”
As if I were a child again !
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
0*2
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THE D1YBRS C'HWSrM AJT W*F.A M~* fiNTAM'iifiO MfiJRlS'K
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HARPER'S NEW MONTH RV MAGAZINE/
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Go.
170
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
MR. BUSH AS SANTA CLAUS.
“This here Christmas coming ronml pertty
mid’ling reg’lar every year,” said Mr. Milo
Bnsli, “ always puts me in mind of a feller I
knowed back in Pennsylvania when I was a
young man. Likeliest fool in tbe State — he
was, I mean. Biggest fool I ever seen. Dutcher
was his name — Jerry Dutcher. He wasn’t one
of these liere amatoor fools that just work at
it for fun, but a reg’lar peif essional fool. Didn’t
know enough to ache when he was hurt.
Couldn’t, ’a’ scratched a match on a griudstun
— not if he tried.
“ Well, this Jerry got it into his bead that
he was good-looking. Thought he was a reg’lar
Ap Holler — whoever he was. Got a notion the
women was all thinking about him. Finally
he acchooly got soft on the same gal I was
sort o’ shining up to. I was some weak them
days myself, or I wouldn’t V been took in by
that. gal. Evenchooly I seen throo that gal.
44 One Christmas old Uucle Peleg Twigger,
who was the father of the gal, give a sort of a
shindy, and asked in we neighbors. I went,
and so did this here Jerry, and a passel of oth-
er folks, mostly fools. The gal, Jerusha, was
there making bigger fools of most of ’em. Us
younger people indulged in various pastimes
of a more or less int.ellecchooal character, such
as hunt-the-slipper, Copenhagen, and sich,
w'hile the more elderly folks played old sledge
and drunk hard cider in the kitchen. This
Jerry was all the time getting betwixt me and
Jerusha in his fool way — a-cnrling up his mus-
tache and a-striking attitoods. Old Si Hook-
er finally struck up w ith fiddle music, and we
danced — tripped the light bombastic toe, was
what Jerry said. I could ’a’ knocked him down.
And mostly he tripped it with Jerusha, too —
he got. four dances, and I got one.
“Then the next thing ou the porgramine
was the distribution of the Christmas pres-
ents. In the past they’d had a Christmas
tree, but no, that wouldn’t do for Jerusha this
time. To tell the truth, that gal was just
about as foolish as Jerry. I didn’t see it
then, but I seen it later. Woman, thy name
is flayalty, observes the poet — and he hit it
pertty near right.
44 No, nothing would do for Jerusha this time
but a Sandy Claus — reg’lar live tomfool, with
a pack and whiskers, a-playing he was Sandy
Claus. 4 Mr. Bush,’ says Jerusha, a-purring
like a Maltese cat — ‘ Mr. Bush, will you honor
us by being our Sandy Claus V 4 Sartenly,’ says
1 : 4 it is yours to command ; ’ just like that, I
says, beginning to catch on to Jerry’s ways.
44 Well, they got me my pack and my whis-
kers, and I put ’em on, and then says Jerusha,
4 You will find a ladder outside to get up
to the chimbley with.’ 4 Wot,’ says 1, 4 have I
got to come down the jim-fizzled chimbley V
4 Of course,’ says she; 4 all Sandy Clauses do.
The lire is out. Our chimbley is large. It is all
for the children, you know. Mr. Bush. Don’t
you love children, Mr. Bnsli V 4 Yes,* says I —
just like that — 4 yes, jig -wiggle ’em, I love
children, but I’m no chimbley-swab.’ Then
that there Jerry Dutcher come up, his elbows
sticking out, and says he : 4 Is yer Sandy Claus
balky, Miss Jerusha f Let me be yer Sandy
Claus. I love to make happy the little inner-
cent children.’ Then I goes out into tbe night,
ready to back down into a volcainer.
44 The bore of that there chimbley was not
large, but by slipping my pack up on the back
of my neck, and folding my whiskers and hold-
ing ’em under my chin, I managed to get
started. Soot got in my eyes, and I was forced
to omit many remarks which would have fit
the occasion, for fear it would also get. in my
mouth. Them remarks I said inwardly, how-
ever, and they applied to the chimbley, the
idgit Jerry, the gal, and the happy, innercent
children which I loved.
44 1 calculated that I’d gone rooting and
scraping dowui that hole about five hundred
feet, when I stopped a-straddle of someth ing,
I felt about, and found it to be an iron real,
which seemed to ’a’ been put in by the man wot
built the thing to hold the sides together. I
h’isted up, but my pack was catcbed. I tried
to swing over, like a man getting ofl' of boss-
back, but there wasn’t room. My wdiiskers
had conic unpacked, and were wiped up over
my face mostly, but I could not get my hands
up to brush them down. The voice of the
happy, innercent children which I loved came
to my ears. The distant strains of the fiddle
floated up. I could hear Jerry and Jerusha
talking gayly. My feelings, repressed too long,
bust out. Opening my month, regardless of
both soot and artificial hair, I spoke my mind
freely as become a man.
44 My remarks attracted the attention of all,
and I heard the women removing the children
from the room before I could say more. Then
I heard Jerusha looking up the chimbley. 4 1
can seo Mr. Bush’s legs,’ says she. 4 Then he
himself must lie near,’ says Jerry. 4 Are yon
stuck?’ calls old Mrs. Twigger. 4 Wot did I
say?’ says I. 4 1 would dislike to repeat wot
you said,’ says she. Then they all begun to
talk. 4 We must rescue him,’ says Jerusha;
4 the children are waiting for their presents.’
4 Wot can we do?’ says old Si. 4 1 suggest
pushing of him down somehow ,’ says Jerry.
‘Couldn’t we drop something on him from the
top of the chimbley — say an anvil ?’ They all
said no. 4 Then,’ says Jerry, 4 why not li’ist him
up ? Wot do you say to a keg of powder in the
fireplace ? Let us blow the young man who
was so anxious to be Sandy Claus out the top
of the chimbley like a b’iliug volcainer.’ Then
they shut the idgit up, and brought a crowbar,
and after reaching up and measuring with a
long stick and locating me, they all went up
stairs, and begun to dig throo the bricks w here
I was. 4 Let me w ield the bar which shall lib-
erate a hero,’ says Jerry, and they let him.
4 Be careful ; do not overdo,’ I heard Jerusha
saying to him. 4 A brave and an innercent man
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
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I’liE PUtNT OF VIEW:
J
M*?r ky nkl i i»a,p. that uiiji Ml Uit iiituiyti ft jennd pk-rnt*
l^iut y.ntlr M'<i iiiv>n ”
’/>«>:. i/ .iNTt.
i>*d m»a
• ;V«jR'.vF*uu^ii.
BV &&9&K1C&'. BANGS
AC oWfvar of |Kjri^>iijt!(i1 lUerai me
renmrknt! ihtit eotihl
tin g t * jVI* a Christ am* number from nil
by it* fab 3»fft^jwroitJHlo<ikin«- exterior, and I be
absence within af
tktotfitg to the (Jliriatitias *feju
iHOfe \V bet Ink enti rdy deseHcti
or not* ihl* tras ucd whoify with-
out feiiknv.. hi if® afcusd that forty or
year* a gn? Mm hof iday pulrlieadoni? «ff rim time
were fe U*r wf *pi ci t of f 1 m Y n Id- ti de than
o i e those #>f wir mvn ihi.y , t bow w si» j its* ffica-
lion for Urn asseritom One must teoiitess that
the ;lijpilflc of tjfe. CUtftout* luimbeTS
which cofife U* m ?t* *>icU tmjir vellfeia nbuu-
danct fo-fety, i l.i i not aeem*. to have bemr in-.
MjiirojJ quite *o ciiiob by the genial glow of
(j \b of' peace ou i
to nimv^a by. the opfiOttBniiy to
the naforiii deitfe of those t&
feel! lo advertise UichMi atc,s aiv/tdoly or pps~
*ibi6. _ ■ ; ■;.■ ;; ’. V / ‘ : . ’ * . ; > _ } \:-; " j. % ';•■'• ,’• •■> • ' .
tJTife *way not rerwmnahly expect frvefcy yvftf
tale* Ilk# “A Christmas Cftvol/' ^YbjV
( bimvs,n t>r oven those oUirrs to brv found in
the Vhrtetmas muitlmr* oife ffehfeehrdd Words,
essentially lass worthy W* their editor1* genius
Ifehfei some of Ilia oilier m»rk. l&veh elsiOi*^
feift-h om e-nd t.*» tlfe li tien r i> Urn c'hungxra
M tkrtr riiigiliijj, mol udt, i tv-
4|imni: but it mny bo given isygu i& an flpji-
mUt lotrgrat that ftiurinB pao^rfoi tts to
mo >‘ e Clifet hvarf-cil the 4t«ing fei
-&ifctur$n lotjgiir f<5 j«s %rri$teo. ^rrtpgfts
are . ^11 btti the liitfraty cla^itleatkiii
Mti^k if* he hh^ul tetha a|*|«>ar hi
jrfSptniiit‘o/i? tit j»: w liorei n, logether. i WKKf^Kfl HH
There a ro several 'ViM, ♦•hi Rf.odear Til r»;- iUelC wc hove a Hide light -diiM ttjtnn tlm >u-*
j>‘d been .|i monopoly hf fhe«<\ ny*) ■./';thprV i»ewonTfl!fy ; itli'ronrftli ; ;1 5 1>>-
!.» >* kuJ. .om^ to. pll his honor*, hnt. he ^h'roihi trmliH tion to the book by hi* 4aoghtH' :-:t-hiMf
uwrfa (** disgorge tomeMThat, and to share wh'ioh nothing eooltl bi* more ■ ivtith-rly inti-
1/i? laurels with' $;*u ra t'lau*. Weil tohhiho oute At hi it is this very point that h-i* otade
h>v>; ^fory ei’er !}ew1( ohl yi-f it Why^hbpl4 >«f -fhis e»litioi\. of the uKe\reom**^/‘ <;f 1 !>•«-
if out he «n tv ith the stoty (»f t toKmlj’Vnf Peudem»iKj?r4o4 bf ^
EVej* if i V> detnilH have been worn threaiV niteh a drU^ht to the lover*, ortho thebmpftl^
|it>^k>un;et!> and <>Ut ua tlib hilK thp nkb Mr, Tirnotr^h. There ove noniy — h)io
motive ii gT»^-.», imd'fefir*>Jy' out;mv- rmght uroo^l *a/ thmiK<puh« — o ho think of
iIoim mol pohliHiitnc nonlit he forgiven for Thnekeray a> <«»' u rvnie: yfliift feel Hr.u in*
baffling s»£»on tli>Mn oun* agaii*. tlic ’^o»j iibtghv »! at v:i t U»*r than with people ».f
of erHftJ?r wpMihl htiv! ilykrttiued jwtiom her wrote, and iookwi npon life Itojh u
i-» th* (nr*i of i* r#dreraU»>li of the %tdry pf *v€ viuw whieU only the d'tkapptiMitfti
HijroMgy, aidMVw teafl^w o<M,h) he harmed to ruwhi take. It ia' hardly m^aiy tu sj*y fo a
ii- iruo v ;»iHi p> eir jpy.t o^>r /j.0»1) the >vw,H .h«v-ronooUi»»g i^emho: tloi.f t>v i,*.j tips view-
n)v-'swago!>:d* ibr Vukr whieU Av^mid -hrynl them,’ of .hi* eharaetor \\ a nij^fake haaed t»-potj a
evfsf> ttU^fachHy, M de*«H thei? *iW\i pallia of e otap J e yh • fsi titi r . ^f£:v loan,
pleit^ntov^ A ^rb'if !iat\muy to ' 'PJ i av. ‘v r) '« . • thtu
%*i M& a<t ftti^.arr.pfThw a... ‘^, tl^apphiiit htjjv ytf ^ 'tldeyri^hihg iliat
world wkf&h i«0M of 1 dark neH1* «*f sopr^J h\in« lib*' wa# aH ^tthny /llu-
ulghi tbaiV of thd bright ftuiifdHiw of hajipi- tm.*Hitvtb mid while hi> uttffndo ioHoard the
i.'-.r..--. aliams pf «ocie t>* in 1 1# tiarro w trtf se w &e. a »> d tp n -
It thay be said,, jmd with u great deal of
tratjV, that the publication* issued OHtetiSilily
m fchri*tihh» ivpmimrs, yet tiuhihg iiately
'Miy ^ reference tvr . spirit
tlift hour, u re hy tuy menus iiidb
ySfluttl with rmr own day,: VImui Cb[]^^
tbd vo?n rue of TUnckeray *?rli ieb
?8 culkd C ty fotHid* I&okx cftuUi i|f* Ititid wif i*
fifty liireca faring upw Chdfetimis- IVrtahdy
tlmre is tiothing iu M^s. P^r'k^^i^V Balh,,
eept the liate of that- fit heticar. which urn ktife if
pzxiperly ^ ven ^ tJccember stx»ry ; tt<tr is thyt^
tiuy pwifif'ed aljasimi to tire setLstm in tbo rey
nminifig tales vc hid? fonrt this <rtdlectippw Y'ef
there is m -then* all 'tnul ^ «amly iVtscendl^^f a
kindty nitifrnde tw^ird life, ami the wtirld find
.people^ whieb would seem to have been
earth, mid good-wtli prompted by nothin geo much a* by ii fvehTig
of good ^Vi II, Ami which i* fiot oiily e^sentml
to t ire ChrisltnasHpirif \utl which, after ti k'een
ttU;ihet« of all hie work, eeeme to he the key-'
pot* Of thf» satire of J haokerav, ns tt meet he
of all natho that is to i/e olYV;etiv«\ rind of all
humor that U fct sie, lU-natoryd Hotire N the
JpaViest. ibiiig in the world. Caption* criticism
^ is add has always btfro the reaoiitof of the
^afmTisciaC To poll down is mefioct in man,
and euvr^eipient iy r» i tails itc» par Ueolar id tei-
lectnnl endornnent, w hich is poseUdy why we
have so many tconocltvsi^ arid m few bolfrfal
u Clfe W-
.tnasi Bonks 1 of the tiode the
f Mhfllt aferifc eff the eeneon p^riWdtfeg i)W Whrdfe so
that, after all, ibi^' vmue properfe it ode i* ?{ie
K;: and dsperiafly ohv idwa
i bn rbou rapid a al Iaiiiiour
Hh \ he 10 erary jirotltict
CivdMtn^s
Na?»Nrx
LITERARY NOTES.
nrd its impostors in tlie larger, was vigorously
condemnative, it is impossible to liiul in any
line from his pen a note of insincerity, a note
of real animosity. He satirized the foibles of
men and women about him, but always with
sympathy where sympathy was at all possible ;
and when uot so, with a tolerance for the fol-
lies of man which betokened anything hut
a cyuical attitude. The biographical work
of Mrs. Ritchie is doing much to correct this
false view, which has been, unfortunately, too
prevalent, and as a rehabilitation of the real
Thackeray the edition is sure of the warmest
welcome at the hands of those who loved him
not alone for his genius, but for the manuer
of man he was.
It was said, not long ago, of one of the most
clever of the band of clever young English
writers who have sprung into prominence
within the past five years, that
the Magistrate.” ^ie hJI(I the qualities of Dick-
By ens except his humor. At first
W. Picrr Riih3k. gia;ice this seemed quite on a
par with sayiug that one has all the ingredi-
ents for the making of a plum pudding save
the plums, but a reading of the works of the
young author disclosed the fact that the de-
scription was exact. He revelled in the kind of
scene that would have pleased Dickens; he had
the same genius for the vivid delineation of these
phases of life, bjut he lacked the sympathetic
touch, the humaneness of the master, and to just
that extent fell short of realizing what may be
presumed to have been his ideal. Similarly of
the work of Mr. W. Pett Ridge it might have
been said, previoiu» to the publication of By
Order of the Magistrate , that he had all the
qualit ies of Dickens except his seriousness. In
his 44 Clever Wife,” as well as in 44 The Secre-
tary to Bayne, M. P.,” and 44 The Second Op-
portunity of Mr. Stapleliurst,” there was to a
marked degree what might bo called the laugh
between the liues. There was an atmosphere
of buoyancy throughout these stories that was
felt rather than seen, and which came as a re-
lief to readers whose tastes for the morbid had
been more than satiated, but they lacked some-
thing. One instinctively felt that when Mr.
Pett Ridge chose to desert the somewhat too
obvious humor involved in the consideration
of the 44 New Woman ” and kindred topics, aud
should give up an effort t° combine fantasy
and realism and settle down to a serious
theme worthy of his talent, exceptionally good
work might be expected of him. The charm
of his manner, his persuasive and pervading
humor, brought to bear upon some serious
motive having to do with real life, one felt
should be productive of something worth
while, and 14 By Order of tlifl Magistrate”
would seem to justify this expectation. The
study of a girl of the London streets, in whoso
nature lay absolutely nothing that was evil,
but, on the contrary, much that was good, and
wh6 yet could not escapo the disadvantages of
her environment, despite her effort to do so, is
fraught with possibilities worthy of any hand.
The seriousness of the theme might well deter
any but the most experienced from laying hold
upou it. It is a subject worthy of a Dickens,
and, treated by him, one can well imagine a
most potent result. That Mr. Pett Ridge has
handled it discreetly and well one can say
without fear of contradict ion. That he lias
made the most of it none has the right to say;
but to say that his effort is strong, aud that it
lifts him to a higher literary plane tiiau he has
hitherto reached is a statement one can make
with confidence. Whether or not the book
will work reforms, as some of Dickens’s and
some of Sir Walter Bcsant’s have worked, de-
pends entirely upon the susceptibilities of the
British public — and the British public is not
quite so impervious as some superficial ob-
server's would have us think. In any event,
whether Mr. Pett Ridge’s story saves the
“Mordemlys” of the future from undeserved
trials and obloquy or not, it has emphasized
certain horrid facts of life in such a fashion
that he who studies society in its broadest sense,
and is sincerely desirous of working reforms
tending towards the uplifting of those to whom
it is in vogue to refer as 44 the submerged
classes,” will do well to peruse it seriously, to
consider the lessou which it rams home with-
out presuming to teach, and to bend his ener-
gies accordingly.
Miss Lilian Bicli. has told 11s all about “The
Love Affairs of an Old Maid,” and has illumina-
ted several important, matters 44 From a Girl’s
Point of View.” She lias told us
most engagingly what kind of a * ofstcV*0
man a man should bo to meet fatherhood."
with the approval of the young LILIA®ypKL1
woman who is worthy of him.
She has dilated somewhat on 44 The Under Side
of Things,” and her readers have come tobelieve
that Miss Bell is a good deal of a philosopher
— indeed, her severest critics have acknow-
ledged that she is such. Fortunately Miss Bell
is something more thau a philosopher. She is
a keen observer of life, and while she unques-
tionably knows more of the eternal feminine
than of the ephemeral masculine, one must ad-
mit that she philosophizes humanly and con-
cretely, rather than idealistically, and from the
theoretical point as a man might do. Her men
are very real, and they recognize the fact, and
enjoy reading about themselves. That which
is Battering they fiud pleasing. That which is
otherwise they treat with that tolerance with
which man is inclined to regard all his foibles.
Her women even women regard as kindred
spirits, because they are always high-minded
and witty and everything they should be.
Wherefore Miss Bell is known for what she is,
a true philosopher aud realist, w ith a happy
humor, a keen eye, and allied to these gifts a
charming way of putting things.
Hitherto one has been disposed to place Miss
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Bell among the essayists rather than among
the writers of fiction. It isr therefore, well
wlieu she deserts topics of largely feminine in-
terest to give 11s an insight into The Instinct
of Step- fatherhood, to sound a note of warn-
ing. It would be a mistake for a young man
who contemplates following in the footsteps of
Na|K)lcnn Bonaparte, and acquiring a family
reaily made at the altar, to invest in a copy of
Mins Bell’s attractive volume with the idea in
iniud that it is a text-book from which he may
learn something that will prove to his advan-
tage in his uew relation, since the book con-
tains nothing of the sort. It is not by any
means a rade mecum for step-fathers, and ono
might read it over a dozen times, and be no
more proficient in the art and theory of step-
fatherhood than he was at the beginning. On
the other hand, reverting to a point already
discussed, if he desires to read of a delightful
little passage at arms between a bright young
woman and a clever young man, the result of
which plunges his mind deeply into a contem-
plation of the possibilities of doing good at
Christmas-time, nothing could more complete-
ly meet with his wishes than a perusal of the
second story in this collection, called “ A Study
in Hearts.1’ Despite the fact that the heroine
is charged with having “yellow eyes” and is
“ worse than beautiful,” her charm is undeni-
able, and the behavior of both hero and hero-
ine, under the influence of their new-born love
for each other, toward that fortunate gamin
Tommie O’Reilly, involves a moral which is
particularly applicable to us on the verge of
the holiday season.
In these two stories, as in the remaining five,
notably ‘‘The Heart of Brier Rose,” and “A
Woman of No Nerves,” Miss Bell’s fiction inay
bo set down as a success, and while ono may
miss the subtle touches that have lent so great
a charm to her essays, after reading “The In-
stinct of Step-fatherhood K from cover to cover
one may not reasonably regret her venture into
fiction, since her fiction is as well considered, as
entirely true, and as essentially kindly humor-
ed as her essays have boon, and it need hardly
be said that in her essays Miss Bell has ap-
pealed to an unusually largo circle of appre-
ciutiou.
In that most delightful of delightful books,
“ Little Rivers,” by Dr. Van Dyke, an incident
is noted of one, an American in Scotland, who
remembered his friends at home
" by sending them every year tro-
By phies of his prowess as a liiints-
Ankib Tscm- mm,. “ Ho has a pleasant trick,”
the author writes, “ of making
them gTateful to the imagination, as well as to
tho palate, by packing them in heather. I’ll
warrant that Aaron’s rod bore no bonnier blos-
soms than these stiff little bushes — and none
more magical. For every time I take up a
handful of them they transport me to the High-
lands, and send me tramping once more, with
knapsack and fishing-rod, over braes and down
the burns.”
This tribute of a sincere lover of nature to
the influence of the “stiff little bushes” upon
his imagination is recalled to the mind of a
sincere lover of “Little Rivers” by Mrs. Slos-
son’s latest collection of short stories, Dumb
Fox-glove , and othei' Stories . That which the un-
erring aim of her fancy has brought down she
sends to her friends packed up, 0110 might say,
in “heather.” Her stories of tho life of the
lowly are filled with a keen sense of what is
beautiful in nature, and after reading one of
them one feels very much as if one had roamed
through some quiet country vale gathering
wild flowers or autumn leaves, listening to the
songs of the birds, or perhaps dipping into the
mysteries of some mountain stream, and all
the while meeting with and receiving a kiudly
nod from the people who dwell therein, tho
key-note of whoso lives is simplicity. It is this
insight into nature, perhaps, that more than
anything else lends a charm to Mrs. Slosson’s
work. Certainly her sketches of life are as
slight as they are fresh and original. She
touches now and then upon some of the deeper
chords of existence, but not often, and among
the seven tales included in the new volume
there is none which presents, or attempts to
present, more than a little corner of some phase
of life. The result is pleasing, and one may
say of tho collection, as has been said of Mrs.
Slosson’s first hook, “Seven Dreamers,” that
“the sweetness, the spiciness, the aromatic
taste of the forest, has crept into them.” One
may not road it sympathetically without feel-
ing that lie has touched upon some of tho essen-
tials of Nature herself, and the mental sensa-
tion that follows carries with it that exhilara-
tion which is inseparable from a day in tho
open, with tho sun shining aud the air crisp
and sweet.
To ono who is minded seriously to study the
literary output of the last twenty years, it
would prove an interesting and not wholly
11 n profit able venture to try to discover in what
one of many authors there has
lain tho highest general norm “ Wild Eelln.”
of excellence. The years w hich \v1i<Uaj/blagk.
have passed in tho last quarter-
century have produced many men and women
who have written well, some of whom have
given indications of the possession, of real
genius, but have yet failed to bring it to ful-
filment. For a number of these years certain
writers have* shone forth so conspicuously as
to throw' all others into the shade, each in his
own year, and have then dropped back into
obscurity. One recalls without much difficulty
how every one talked of Hugh Conway for a
brief period, then of Mr. Crawford and of Mrs.
Ward, and of Mi*. Haggard and Mr. Stevenson,
then of the author of flee Versa , then of Miss
Harraden, and later of Mr. Kipling, Mr. Caine,
Anthony Hope, and others, all writers of certain
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single books wbicli betokened genius, many of
which have not been followed np by others
of equal merit. Few have survived the test
of the second venturo. Mrs. Ward, Mr. Craw-
ford, and Messrs. Kipling and Stevenson have
done so, the last proving himself without
doubt a worthy candidate for immortal hon-
ors. Mr. Hope is at present on the crest of
the wave, and as an apostle of woe Mr. Caine
holds his own.
But outside of the popularity of certain crea-
tures of the moment there have been those
who have steadily written on, uudismayed,
not carried away by the emotions of the little
hour, and not yielding a jot to the popular
clamor for this or that thing in literary fads.
And it is safe to say that among these, when
all is sifted down and the gold has been as-
sayed, the residuum will be found. It is also
safe to say that among these will be placed —
nud not far from the top of the list, either — the
name of Mr. Black. There is a high standard
of excellence in Mr. Black’s work, from the days
when “.The Princess of Thule” was a mucli-
talked-about novel, when “Green Pastures and
Piccadilly” was the most popular book of the
day, down to the present, when Wild Eelin
shows him to bo a thorough artist in the pre-
sentation of whatsoever he may have to say to
his readers. Reference was made iu a previous
note to the exhilaration which comes from a
day in the opeu, and Mrs. Slosson’s work was
w commended because it seemed so full of that
which was real aud worth while in nature,
and it is precisely this quality which makes
Mr. Black’s work so refreshing tb those who
read him, plus the art of one who is devoted
to literature, and who has studied its require-
ments from the point of view of one who loves
it for its own sake. It would be a mistake to
say that fn “Wild Eeliu ” one finds the fullest
fruition of its author’s genius, because even so
long as twenty years ago Mr. Black was doing
quite as good work ; but it is no mistake to
say that in “Wild Eelin” he has given to us
a story that is worthy of him, and that it is
fully up to the “norm of excellence ” to which
he has constantly adhered.
There is a diversity of tastes among the
readers of books, aud one must bo liberal in
his judgment of those who differ with him in
respect to the merit of that which is published,
but it mnst be said that he who can read
“Wild Eelin” without appreciation has no
comprehension of what is worth while in let-
ters. It is pure and wholesome from begin-
ning to end. It smacks of the heather as
sweetly as any of our modern Scottish talcs;
it lias humor of the best sort; and in the end
it leaves the reader of fickle tastes wondering
why he has been led astray by any of the
“fads ” of tho immediate hour.
To present with any degree of fidelity an
individual to whom pocket-picking is not only
a source of income but. of positive delight
would seem to be a task in undertaking which
an author would have to forego the pleasure
of counting on his readers’ sympathy. It is,
of course, true that while all the world loves
a lover it also delights in vil-
lains. A vast number of readers tThn,res of”'
prefer to occupy their miuds Francoi*.”
with the evil doings of the un- 8*
scrupulous rather than dwell lTOURM*»
upon tho ways of the truly virtuous, but it
seldom happens that we take these creatures
to our hearts and wish we had known them
personally. The mere fact of their villany
precludes the probability of their becoming at-
tractive additions to the group of people who
live iu our libraries, in the sense that they some-
times seem to step down off the shelves and
help us with their companionship agreeably to
while away an idle aud otherwise lonely hour.
We like to read about them, but on the whole
we are rather glad that when wo wish to he
rid of them we may do so by the simple opera-
tion of shutting to the covers of the book. In
Tike Adventures of Francois Dr. Mitchell has
changed all this. Few may read of the charm-
ing scoundrel with the strange fuco and won-
derful capacity for laughter, who is the cen-
tral figure of these adventures, without a wish
that it might have been possible to grasp aud
affectionately press his dishonost baud.
As in “ Hugh Wynne,” the greatest charm of
“ The Adventures of Francois” lies in the easy,
semi - reminiscent style of the author. Dr.
Mitchell presents a picture of the troubled times
of the Terror in Franco which carries convic-
tion of i t s t ru tli w i th i t , j list as i n t he s( ory of h is
venturesome “ Free Quaker” he last year gave
ns a brilliant side light upon our own Revolu-
tionary period, which read more like history
than like fiction. It is no exaggeration to say
that in no author since Dumas do we seem
to be brought so closely into touch with the peo-
ple of France, other than mere historical per-
sonages, as in these pages from Dr. Mitchell’s
pen. There is a delightful blending herein of
both seeming realism and romance that is
within bounds, which is unfortunately rare
among our writers to-day; a blending of diver-
sities which one may think is an essential
in the achievement of the highest degreo of
success in the art of letters. In all this meed
of appreciation of Dr. Mitchell's work one
may sound only one note of seeming discord,
which is tho expression of a hope that, now
that Dr. Mitchell has made his little incursion
into foreign fields, he will return once more to
his own country for his background, and give
us again a glimpse of ourselves as we have
been. There are so many among ns who can
write well of things across the sea, and so few
who appear to find any inspiration whatever
from that which lies at their very doors, that
one grudges the time Dr. Mitchell has given to
France, however pleasing the results have been
to us who read him and delight in the laurels
he has won.
4
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UNIVERSITY OF. MICHIGAN
i j * f. (ivi ri.ii $p -AMIA'.U. ,n (. v
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE
Vol. XCVIII
JANUARY, 1899
No. DLXXXIY
THE NAVAL CAMPAIGN OF 1898 IN THE WEST INDIES.
BY 8. A. STAUNTON, LIEUTENANT UNITED STATES NAVY.*
FROM the time of the destruction of
the Maine , in the harbor of Havana,
on February 15, our naval force in South-
ern waters had been placed partially upon
a war footing. It was not by any means
that war was considered inevitable. On
the contrary, it was thought that even
should the Court of Inquiry decide that
the Maine had been treacherously de-
stroyed, Spain would meet all reasonable
demands; but the state of preparation
was a state of security demanded by
military prudence, and also was valu-
able to men and officers as a discipline
and exercise. The men had already
been well trained at the guns — well in-
structed in their mechanism and man-
uals— the principal business of the cruis-
ing man-of-war in time of peace; but to
this training was added constant daily
target practice with sub-calibre fire — a
form of exercise which is much approved,
and for which all batteries are now
fitted. It consists in firing a small pro-
jectile from a large gun, employing the
pointing and aiming mechanism of the
latter. To effect this the small gun is
placed inside the breech of the large gun,
and precisely in its centre, and is held
there by a special fitting. So adjusted,
its axis coincides with that of the larger
piece, and, except for the shock and re-
coil, the normal firing conditions with full
charge are imitated. One-pounders are
ordinarily employed for the sub-calibre of
the heavy turret-guns, and musket barrels
for those of the secondary batteries. Dur-
ing those waiting days at Tortugas and
Key West, fluttering flags a few hundred
yards from each ship showed the targets,
and for hours each day the splash of bul-
lets followed the rifle reports with monot-
* Lieutenant Staunton served throughout the
war in the flag-ship New York as Assistant Chief
of Staff to Admiral Sampson.
Copyright, 1#W, by Harper and Brother*. All right* referred.
onous regularity. After each shot the
gun was swung off the target, brought
back, and aimed anew for the next, thus
making it an independent exercise. It
was not inspiring or dramatic, this steady
burning of powder in small quantities
during the sultry afternoons, but it was
the sort of work which makes war deadly,
and it bore its fruit in the swift and ter-
rible destruction of Cervera’s fleet.
The Navy Department had directed
that all vessels should be painted a uni-
form gray, the “war-color,” to diminish
as much as possible their visibility under
the varying conditions of the atmosphere.
The complements of the vessels— i. e., the
number of men assigned to them — were
increased to a war footing, and with ev-
ery preparation made to render his ves-
sels efficient fighting-machines, the com-
mander-in-chief awaited his instructions.
A number of additions to the squadron
had arrived, the government having al-
ready begun the purchase and equipment
of auxiliaries.
In addition to the force under Rear-
Admiral Sampson’s command, known as
the “ North Atlantic Squadron,” a second
squadron, called the “ Flying Squadron,”
intended as a compact force for expe-
ditionary work, had been organized at
Hampton Roads, and placed under the
command of Commodore Schley. The
Brooklyn was the flag-ship of this squad-
ron, and the battle ships Massachusetts
and Texas were assigned to it; also the
fast cruisers Columbia and Minneapolis.
Later a third squadron, known as the
“ Northern Patrol Squadron,” was form-
ed under the command of Commodore
Howell, who had been recalled from the
Mediterranean Station. The flag-ship San
Francisco , the ram Katahdin , and the
armed auxiliaries converted from the pur-
chased steamships of the Morgan Line
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
were the principal vessels of this com-
mand, whose special function was to pro-
tect the Northern Atlantic coast from
Spanish raids. Neither of these squad-
rons saw service until they were sent to
Cuban waters after the appearance of
Cervera in the West Indies, when they
ceased to exist as independent commands
and were placed under the orders of
Admiral Sampson. The double-turreted
monitors were fitted out as speedily as
possible and sent to Key West; and the
old single-turreted monitors, which had
long been lying in the back channel at
League Island, and were useless except
as floating batteries, were placed in the
Northern ports, where, manned by Naval
Militia, and aided by armed tugs and
other improvised auxiliaries, they formed
an inner line of naval defence.
When the arrival of Cervera in the
West Indies defined the direction and
purpose of his campaign, the Flying
Squadron was ordered at once to Cuban
waters; and after the Spanish fleet was
blockaded at Santiago de Cuba, and a
large part of our naval force had, in con-
sequence of the blockade, and of the ne-
cessities of convoy duty attendant upon
the army expedition, been assembled on
the southern side of the island, Commo-
dore Howell was ordered South to re-en-
force the blockade of Havana and other
ports on the northern side.
War began on April 21, and early on
the morning of April 22 eleven vessels
and four torpedo-boats moved towards
Havana.
The formation was one intended to
guard against surprise, and to be ready
for fighting. In one column, led by the
flag -ship New York , were placed the
heavy -armored vessels — the fighting-line.
In a parallel column, led by the Cincin-
nati, were the lighter cruisers. The May-
flower, Wilmington , and the torpedo-boats
were placed in advance and on the flanks
as scouts. There was no pageantry nor
pomp, no fluttering of pennons nor play-
ing of bands, no cheering, no bystanders.
The sun rose upon fifteen gray masses,
large and small, steadily moving south,
the smoke pouring in black clouds from
their funnels. War is a serious business,
and in that moment of its commencement
every one felt it to be so.
There was a lack of definite informa-
tion as to the Spanish naval forces in Cu-
ban ports. It was known that they con-
tained a number of small cruisers and
gunboats and some torpedo vessels; but
the condition and speed of the last — the
only vessels likely to cause annoyance
— were not known. The Vizcaya and
Oquendo , lately at Havana, had gone to
the eastward two weeks before, but it was
among the possibilities that they might
still be in West Indian, even in Cuban,
waters. As a matter of fact, they were
at that moment at the Cape de Verde
Islands, having joined Admiral Cervera
on the 19th.
The fleet approached Havana late in
the afternoon. Some delay was occa-
sioned by the chase and capture of a
Spanish steamer, and it was not until the
next morning that the vessels were dis-
tributed to their blockading stations. We
learned later that something like a panic
had been created in Havana by the ap-
pearance of the fleet and the expectation
of an immediate bombardment.
The novelty of a blockade soon wears
off. It is the most monotonous and fa-
tiguing and the least satisfactory of all
the operations of naval warfare — a period
of waiting and watchfulness, of constant
attention to the positions of the vessels,
of unremitting lookout night and day, of
infinite observance of all the precautions
of war. The dulness is varied by an
occasional chase; but these, being all of
about the same character, soon cease to
excite more than a passing interest. The
smoke of a steamer is seen on the horizon,
and a blockader dashes off to investigate.
The steamer holds her course, and if that
draws away from the pursuing vessel,
the incident develops into a stern-chase,
lasting sometimes several hours. An ene-
my of course does her best to escape; and
a neutral is wholly within her right in
ignoring the presence and movements of
a cruiser until a gun commands her to
heave to; and as the belligerent right of
search is an annoyance and vexation to
neutrals, they do not, as a rule, hesitate
to stretch their privileges to the farthest
point consistent with safety. As the
cruiser, working her engines at top speed,
draws within gunshot of the flying mer-
chantman, which with modern guns is
from three to five miles, she fires a blank
charge. If this does not appear to be
seen or heard, she fires a shell, directing
it wide of the mark, and the most obsti-
nate skipper seldom risks the chances of
the third shot. A chase at night is more
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE NAVAL CAMPAIGN OF 1898 IN THE WEST INDIES
TUB V AT CUt V f j
0T1S98 • I:!
' IN TBe-Sn^T.
Irani-aUe, ,The grange y^ssel. is sigh led. Towards tiro end of April it became
it a shhrler thpre is more fin- known thit jOervera's squadron tit foil?
ceruiffty \ik» ip. ifer character, a;rid more armored cnn$er&»ud three torpedo UQat-
^Hier e-scjtp^. Whatever of mys- destroyers had sailed twin the Cape de
tery am) impress ion the gloom and ob- Verdes, presumably for the West Indies,
Parity »*f Eiight upon Hit? ana eOftyey is Sau J uafi fur to the east-
Mlili'd U> the ettVel The ru*hm£ bows ward of Cuba, >* Bpanhsh iWUfied port,
fofwlfc U^.*ph«isphoireise«ot vcatet: into wa?os ' with a ^ood harbor unci supphes
of tv-id. . . of tb. bfc th^ir first
JWu* • mfrt ' ^jrkaafijjii Site! ibfig beams aud it vfrilh the hope of finding them
"* the ^reh light* sweep the hofizon for there, or»f meeting them, in that vieih-
Ute ftyiirg vesseL fix her and: bold her in ity. that the San Jwm expedition \n:s
relentless glare. disclosing her flag organized, It consisted of the Hag ship
5iii$ rig, ami evfcn her name; as sin- sot- JSfettf ; tor&» ;thfe Wtfle-si* i p$ lotra and /ns
tefily fibres to and await* the boarding ^ nmmtm^AmphUrite and Ter-
ti4ur ^>r.the era isers /}^/ rwf an d M<Mtgomery,
Key West was the base of the uor^bwi ihfr toyp%d<*:bmt Porter^ armed thg iT a m
Vpickade for coal and 3 applies-. ;Thc -patii&fc anil-. tfullisir •••Wio' ves-
sels/to* assigned hot; the several ports, sef« rendezvoused north of Bahia de Ca-
ble greater number ‘beiii-g; xtyttoibed id diz lig^ near Cardenas, and sailed at
• rent of Havana, beeau.se of its mipur- midnight on May' 4.
Ufice, and because its powerful baftenesy It was hoped, that fair speed might be
taping vessels at a distance.. made the made, hut the monitors gave much tmu-
thxkmbiig {'men longer oner The Hag- hie. With small coal catchy, boilers
Aipnuuoam^d geamm)^ ^ supervisfpu, and e<ngm^r/f nhl tyg^^pd in poor con
niff Halt creator part, of the time off Ha- diiiofi, tlipy cn-ti.wri del ay from vho ]>c rg! ici -
r^vna, Hut moving and west .at the tting to. find of ihe g&p&IRfojh- Tbtop
ii'wrviem of ihe Admiral. It was on one werec4^.ictV&/ fnrtniiftfe*-
nf ibc^^ pedHiom that th^so-calltr.d bom- ly befngf r»f
Hjndra*i>i of MaUuxn* took pbiofi—rumv- Haiti for. that purpose ~m\$ they wi re
iya few smells thrown by the Afetv Y<*rX\ mwed during a grfc'af, pkvi. Cif? the tiitm;
PttWhifi; upd '.CineiriMti to discourage iiud wl^eh jtfifc uiid&r to^ Utoy vr^rfi-.^dih
Via: cnjctVMii of a ijiSV batthry. but; which, ’ stanfly breaking down, All cfelerity and
ti^re having: been no fighting lip to that ip-WWertit hi
tieit/^nd the public bein^ thfrjsty •tfie'n>;d$t ex asperating pwiner; ^fidMi-'waA
ci ^naeny $fig nen^paper men thought lii not Urttii the evening of Slay 11 that file
h> magnify into h battle. forc^ a.rHyed in the vicinity of saii duan.
178
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Plans of battle, suited to finding Cer-
vera’s fleet in the harbor of San Juan or
to meeting it at sea, had been arranged,
and communicated to all the vessels.
The city of San Juan is situated on an
island on the north coast of Puerto Rico
— an island which is close to the main-
land, projecting slightly, if at all, beyond
the general line of the coast, and on its
eastern side separated only by a narrow
passage of shallow water, which is bridged.
The harbor, which has only a small area
suitable for deep-draught ships, lies west
of the island, and extends behind it on its
southern side, and the entrance to the
harbor is on its western side between the
Morro and Cabras Island. The island is
high on its sea face, sloping back towards
the harbor, and this sea face is fortified in
the old style, with a castle on each flank,
and a massive wall connecting them. In
addition to the old guns, some of which
were still serviceable, the works were de-
fended by several batteries of modern
rifles. The town lies back of the wall
and castles, on the side sloping towards
the harbor, and only the tops of a few
houses could be seen from the sea.
Admiral Sampson hoped to find the
Spanish squadron coaling in the deepest
part of the harbor, about a mile and a
half from the entrance, and to close in at
once, massing the heavy vessels in front
of the entrance, and destroy the Spanish
ships by heavy-gun fire. He shifted his
flag to the Iowa on the evening of May
11. The squadron had steered wide of
the land to avoid being seen, and upon
reaching a point about north of San Juan
it steamed slowly towards the port, regu-
lating speed to arrive at daylight. Some
time after midnight the lights of the town
became visible, and at the first break of
dawn the squadron was close to Cabras
Island, ready to open the attack as soon as
it should be light enough to see into the
harbor. Coral reefs fringe the shore,
and the surveys had not been thorough.
It was necessary to exercise caution in the
approach, and the Detroit and Wompa-
tuck were put in the lead to take sound-
ings, the latter with instructions to anch-
or a boat on the ten -fathom line. The
Iowa led in column, followed by the
Indiana , New York , Amphitrite , Terror,
and Montgomery , in the order named.
When the growing light gave a dis-
tinct view into the harbor it was clearly
seen that Cervera's ships were not there.
The column of vessels stood in as far as
the boat anchored by the Wompatuck ,
then turned to the eastward across the
mouth of the harbor, and as she brought
her starboard guns to bear, the Iowa,
opened upon the batteries of the Morro,
the other vessels following as they turned
into her wake. The practice was fair.
Some of the shells fell short, but the
greater number struck the castle or bluff.
The roar of the explosions of the heavy
twelve and thirteen inch shell and the
great craters which they made in the walls
of the Morro were object-lessons of the
power of modern ordnance. The Span-
iards speedily returned our fire, but their
marksmanship was poor. The Iowa
passed the Morro, turned back (followed
by the other vessels, retaining their col-
umn formation), steamed to the westward,
and turning again and passing close to
the anchored boat which served as a
marking-buoy, again opened fire ; and this
manoeuvre was repeated a second time,
when, finding that our bombardment was
having no appreciable effect upon the
Spanish batteries, the fleet was ordered to
withdraw. While the vessels were ap-
proaching and firing, the Spanish fire
slackened, our shells driving their men
away from the guns and under shelter ;
but as soon as the ships ceased firing and
turned, the Spaniards came back to their
guns and reopened fire with energy. It
was the first illustration, of which there
were a number during the war, of the
difference between silencing a battery
and destroying it by artillery fire. The
first can be readily effected by supe-
rior fire; the second is exceedingly dif-
ficult of accomplishment by any fire, as
it requires the actual destruction of guns
or their mounts— t. e., they must be actu-
ally struck by shell. The Spanish gun-
nery was incredibly poor. Shots fell in
great, number about the ships, yet only
two were struck, the Iowa and the New
York , with a total loss of one man killed
and seven wounded — only two seriously.
The Spanish loss was much greater, but
was not heavy — probably, from all ac-
counts, something like one hundred killed
and wounded; and the injury to the town
and its people was slight.
The bombardment of San Juau has
been criticised and totally misunderstood.
The public did not understand why it
was attempted and abandoned; why, if
attempted at all, it was not pushed to a
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
v j
‘ Ah 4 jj
1 tj
T^-iStevik **
1
180
HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
successful issue. With Dewey's achieve-
ment fresh in its memory, it looked for
similar victories in the Atlantic, and was
disappointed at what seemed to be a suc-
cessful defence against its best fleet, espe-
cially as this fleet withdrew uninjured.
The attack on San Juan, after it was
ascertained that the Spanish squadron
was not there, was simply a “reconnais-
sance in force.” It was desirable to cap-
ture the place, to destroy its stores of
coal and its defences, and the Spanish
coast gunboats likely to be found in its
inner harbor, if this could be easily done;
but it was not a primary object of the
campaign, and in default of army co-op-
eration the place could not have been
held after capture. It proved to be bet-
ter defended than had been anticipated,
and after thoroughly testing its strength
it became evident that its complete reduc-
tion meant certainly a large expenditure
of ammunition, and possibly serious in-
jury to some of the ships. Cervera's
squadron was at large, and its capture or
destruction was of the first importance.
Nothing which jeoparded this result
could be considered. The Flying Squad-
ron had not yet been sent to Sampson's
assistance, and the force in Cuban waters
was small. Not a ship nor a gun could
be spared if the blockade was to be guard-
ed against Cervera's powerful ships, and
so the Admiral reluctantly turned his
back on San Juan and stood again to the
westward. So well was this move un-
derstood that it had not the slightest ef-
fect upon the morale of the crews.
The squadron steamed slowly back, the
monitors again being taken in tow. On the
14th the hospital-ship Solace joined from
Key West, bringing the report that the
Spanish squadron had returned to Cadiz.
The torpedo-boat Porter was sent to Puer-
to Plata, Haiti, to communicate with the
department. She returned at half past
three on the morning of the 15th, with
information that the Spanish fleet was
off Curagoa, and the Flying Squadron
was on its way to Key West. She was
sent back to Puerto Plata with a bundle
of despatches, to proceed thence to Cape
Haitien to obtain replies, and to rejoin
the flag-ship off that port. The auxiliary
cruiser St. Louis joined, and, accompanied
by the tug Wompatuck. was sent to San-
tiago and Guantanamo to cut cables,
thence to Ponce, Puerto Rico, on the
same business. The remainder of the
squadron proceeded to the westward, the
flag-ship remaining off Cape Haitien to
receive despatches. At midnight. May 15.
the Porter joined from Cape Haitien, with
a despatch from the United States consul
at Curagoa stating that the Spanish squad-
ron was to sail from that port at 6 P.M.,
May 15, for a destination unknown. In-
structions were sent to the auxiliary
cruisers employed as scouts, and the na-
val base at Key West was cabled to have
coal ready for all the ships, and the flag-
ship pushed on after the other vessels.
This was the situation: Admiral Cer-
vera was in the Caribbean with a squad-
ron of four heavily armed and armored
cruisers, rated at a trial speed of twenty
knots, and presumably capable of making
sixteen knots under service conditions.
To these cruisers were joined two tor-
pedo-boat-destroyers, new, very fast, the
best product of English yards — boats
twice as large as our Dupont and Por-
ter, more sea-worthy, and, for their class,
heavily armed. The destination of this
squadron was entirely uncertain. It was
probably Cienfaegos or Havana, but it
might be Santiago de Cuba or San Juan.
It was compact and homogeneous — a
vast advantage in naval operations, the
contrary of which was even then being
painfully demonstrated by the presence
of the slow-going monitors. Our force
was much larger, but it lacked this val-
uable quality. In fact, we had but two
vessels in the navy, the New York and
Brooklyn , which were, ship for ship,
fast enough to overtake, and strong
enough to fight, the Spanish vessels at
their rated speed and strength. Cer-
vera’s purpose, if he knew his business,
would be to raid the blockade and break
it at different points, but especially at
Havana; to avoid action with our battle-
ships, to destroy our cruisers and auxil-
iaries in detail, and perhaps, if able to
maintain his coal -supply, to make a dash
at points upon the Northern coast. It is
difficult to estimate the damage which,
with good luck and bold and skilful
handling, such a squadron might have
done, and this consideration emphasized
the necessity of finding it, striking it, de-
stroying it, or shutting it up in a closely
blockaded port, and made it the para-
mount object of the war. The uncertain-
ty and anxiety of those days will never
be forgotten by any one who shared
them.
Digitized by
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Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE N AVAL ( ’AMPAI&N &F 1896 W 'THE -WEST
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TR? Ft A.U SWir >:EW TOftK
182
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ana, two monitors, seven light cruisers,
two auxiliaries, and two torpedo-boats,
proceeded to a point about two hundred
miles east of Havana, between the Nicolas
and the Old Bahama channels, and occu-
pied those waters in battle formation,
keeping scouts well in advance, and
maintaining daily communication with
Key West. The Cincinnati and Vesuvius
joined on the 25th, and later the monitor
Ampliitrite , disabled, and towed by the
Panther — an unarmed transport. The
force was large enough, but was hetero-
geneous and unwieldy. On the night of
the 25th it moved westward towards Ha-
vana, and on the morning of May 27 the
flag-ship proceeded alone to Key West, to
be iu direct communication with the Navy
Department and with Mole St. Nicholas —
the point of communication with scouts.
The New Chileans and the collier Sterling
were sent to join Schley on the same date.
The Neiv York reached Key West at 2 a. M.,
May 28, and found the Oregon there coal-
ing, she having just arrived, after her
magnificent run of 14,000 miles, from the
Pacific coast.
The situation at Santiago was critical.
Cervera had been there nine days, and
the port was still open. He had had
plenty of time to coal his vessels and
get away. Admiral Sampson consulted
with the department, and at II P.M. on
May 29 sailed in the New York from Key
West, arrived off Havana the next morn-
ing, signalled the Oregon , Mayflower , and
Porter to join him, and proceeded to San-
tiago at a speed of thirteen knots, leaving
Commodore Watson in command of ev-
erything afloat on the north coast. Just
before leaving Key West he heard from
Schley that a blockade of Santiago had
been established.
The commander- in -chief arrived off
Santiago at 6 A. M., June l,and found Com-
modore Schley, with the Brooklyn, Massa-
chusetts, Iowa , Texas , Marblehead , New
Orleans , Harvard , Vixen, and the colliers
Merrimac and Sterling , cruising off the
port. The weather was fine, the sea
smooth, and during several days coal
could be taken from colliers almost as
readily as if the fleet were in port. On
the day before. May 31, Commodore Schley,
with the Massachusetts , Iowa , and New
Orleans , and flying his flag in the Massa-
chusetts, passed in front of the port and
bombarded the forts and the Co/on and
Oquendo , still lying in sight at the lower
anchorage. Both ships and forts return-
ed the fire, but the distance was so great
— from seventy-five hundred to ten thou-
sand yards — that no effect was produced
upon either side. On the morningof June
1, after Admiral Sampson's arrival, the
Colon and Oquendo went up the harbor,
and none of the Spanish armored cruisers
were again seen from the sea until the
3d of July, when they left the port.
The next act in the drama of war is one
with which the world is familiar, the news
of which, flashed to all quarters of the
globe, aroused that irrepressible thrill of
pride and sympathy which greets a deed
of heroic gallantry.
As soon as Cervera had sought and
found the shelter of Santiago, the ques-
tion of obstructing the port, and thus pre-
venting his egress, had been taken into
consideration, and it was decided to em-
ploy the collier Merrimac for this pur-
pose. A long narrow entrance is char-
acteristic of Cuban harbors, and this
peculiarity is emphasized at Santiago.
The opening in the bluff which leads to
the bay inside is a mere gorge, and the
deep-water channel at a point just inside
of the Morro — the castle at the entrance
— is not more than a hundred yards wide.
Also, at this narrow point there is a turn
which adds to the difficulty of navigation.
Above this turn the channel gradually
increases in width. About twelve hun-
dred yards inside the Morro the Punta
Gorda, a high promontory, juts out to the
westward, shutting off all further view.
Guns were mounted both on the east and
west sides of the entrance and on Punta
Gorda, and the channel was mined. A
short distance inside of the entrance, to
the left, lay Cay Smith, a small island,
separated from the mainland by a narrow
channel, in which was moored the Reina
Mercedes as a stationary torpedo -ship,
her tubes commanding the main channel.
A long heavy steamer sunk across the
channel in its narrowest part, at the turn,
would completely block it against the
passage of large vessels. The Merrimac
was about four hundred feet long, hea-
vily built, and still contained of her cargo
of coal more than two thousand tons.
Work was immediately begun to prepare
her for destruction, stripping her of ar-
ticles of value, arranging anchors and
chains for instant use, and placing elec-
tric torpedoes to blow in her sides below
the water-line.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE NAVAL CAMPAIGN OF 1898 IN THE WEST INDIES.
183
Hobson was graduated from the Naval
Academy in 1889, at the head of bis class,
receiving the usual education and train-
ing of a naval officer, and after his grad-
uation served for several months on the
cruiser Chicago as a midshipman. He
was then sent abroad as a student of
naval architecture, and later was com-
missioned assistant naval constructor,
which rank he held at the time of his
exploit. He had been placed in charge
of the recently established postgraduate
course in naval construction at the Naval
Academy, and, when war broke out, came
to the flag ship with the three cadets who
formed his class. One of these cadets,
Powell, accompanied the Merrimac in a
steam-launch until close in to the harbor,
when lie took off the pilot and the ad-
ditional men. Admiral Sampson had
called Hobson in to advise respecting the
best method of sinking the Merrimac al-
most instantly when she should reach
the desired position, as quick work in a
tideway was essential to success. Hobson
took the matter up with eagerness and
energy, made valuable suggestions, and
begged that he might be allowed to con-
duct the enterprise. The officer in com-
mand of the Merrimac insisted upon his
right to command the vessel upon any
service for which she might be selected.
And there were a number of volunteers.
But the Admiral decided in favor of Hob-
son because of his familiarity with the
many details of her preparation for this
especial service.
Volunteers came forward in crowds.
A hundred Mei'rimacs might have been
manned. Only seven men were detailed.
The simplicity and sincerity of these men.
and the modest estimate which they placed
upon their hazardous service, were well
illustrated b.v a remark made after their
exchange. Two of them had been made
warrant officers by the Navy Department
— one an acting boatswain, and the other
an acting gunner. They were called into
the cabin to subscribe to the oaths which
were to accompany their acceptances, and
Captain Chadwick made some appropriate
remarks. One of them implied: “And we
want to thank you, sir, for allowing us to
go. AVe considered it a great privilege,
sir. to be allowed to go, when so many
good men wanted to go.” Nothing is im-
possible to a service whose men are ani-
mated by such a spirit.
On the morning of June 3, at four
o’clock, the Merrimac went in. The story
has been often told. It seems marvellous
that any escaped alive from that gorge of
fire and flame. The enterprise failed of its
object— fortunately, as events afterward
fell out. Her steering-gear was shotaway,
and the ship drifted up with the tide, be-
fore she was sunk, to a point where she
wholly failed to obstruct the channel;
hut the example and influence of such
acts of courage and devotion are power-
ful and far-reaching. As Powells steam-
launch came back, the Admiral and half
a dozen officers on the bridge examined
her carefully through their glasses, and
the men crowded to the side. Neither
Hobson nor ally of his crew were in
sight. In a dead silence Powell came
up the side, came forward, mounted the
bridge ladder, and with the hushed, even
voice of one who has seen death near at
hand, made his report to the Admiral, clos-
ing it with the words/4 And no one came
back, sir.” He had waited until daylight
to pick up a chance swimmer, and had
come out under the fire of the Socapa
battery.
As soon as he reached Santiago, Ad-
miral Sampson instituted a close blockade
of the port. Each ship had its station
indicated by bearing and distance from
the Morro, and was directed to maintain
it. The vessels, as distributed, formed a
semicircle about the mouth of the harbor,
the battle-ships in front, the cruisers on
their flanks, the auxiliaries nearer the
land. The New York was east of the
battle ships, the Brooklyn west of them.
The distance of the ships from the har-
bor’s mouth was first placed at six miles
during the day, closing in to four at
night. Later the distance was dimin-
ished; and finally, towards the end of
the blockade, it was from three to four
miles in the daytime and two at night.
The ships were constantly under way : it
was impossible to anchor because of the
depth of water, even had it been desirable
to do so. Steam was ready, and they
were always cleared for action. Orders
were given to close in at once and engage
should the enemy attempt to escape — to
sink his vessels or force them to run
ashore. The instructions to each Captain
on June 2 fitted exactly the conditions
on July 3, when Cervera came out.
The batteries defending the entrance to
the harbor were bombarded on June 6 and
10. The vessels closed in from their sta
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
NE W ty QNTHL Y M A il A Z I N E
HARFEIfS
month. and mit^ide *r
IhtWn h*u nehtfft ii ptekeU
hue tff: the
0 Iuh epxfgr* Vt\*'&i, ;ta td
Su n'&jiri* v&. I iittge
paH; of Jjkfas il.ui v, . Tor-
pedo- l.iOMtS Wire *.' } l ;• ? * I ». * \ •
Oil its pickets
when p\dhlahk%; The hae-
% IhJC; 0ixlmii.Q& &tih iil*fr
HM| Ml ii him unified hr sen^-h
* r Ok Hi«;: fi>Ha\viu^
Btjfepy n tel trod, hfter vbdipos
u fc»pt»d
saUAfaeubT- Tim j&tiXy
wa* assigned n» i.hv huP
tUv'Sjjips, a. mV only
at a ijivic-; /mqdoye.b her
tiirius id
/; ,.; -•• ■ i\v V h?pirs Wide they
• •' flue
i tan* »! <\ am]
tlMMv^alvvv jj> i!„< jMO
kmgatjm, pf ft* axis.
threw the hmiii of a. ( i'g 1 ? r. * i i n • e U v u jgt t ) t e
cha'miei. VriligThir io!<a pbnn view every
object as ftir op as Pun la Ourdw H v*-»s
u^esj^ury lo haufflb VP**
r;u*j to avoid dkdirhng the lurintdWs ami
pukel vessels. fmt requisite sk.li is as
somji attain Hi.
ft rmyer Urbe a matter #&*?»•'
priH* that the Spaniard* allowed this t*?
eo on svif.ltxaP im.H f-rrure »a non. w-uew
T- ;,:iy muhine uf the bauenvs. the .ships-
often within easy Wf.li!. range .-ley*
T!-;»n nvt) fhteoauul yanJ*. A. baiuhou
of ha'tienuhy ore better ttt/lh a Aow m
sharp WH.nH v. \\ <>■»?. j have .made »he
position Ipll MWW H itti-
turvdhiW.'. Seap'-h bights pro worked from
bridges or 'fViilnory tops, and >n e not pro .
teciyb , Ihdthe. tup>aty pur^tiyd Vdse iya-
(htlumd policy of never attacking and
we r^ :)iV. iu»lli>V ibk ^“d dhi l\*
yro }»kj*d,, . ll i>: .;h Iesv<Vp(Of ;the xval\ }k>>V^
exefl Slal dioiliii |p i:)ke!i oith 0^0' n
■^^1”. V'Vf t ihp ’ ihoirtfl , . « ft<i»r i
d ^viH -fydi ihjit
MOHKO C-4BTLE, SANTIAGO
divided into two squudroUB, ’Ared
afceiy until directed h/ withdraw The
btiite rifts were not Mrotig; uwd ^?n lp>th
da vs s:’ere s[>ee(hly sihmeedv A hevoutw
were struck and destr.>\ w{. bui Uk* vri'M.
er nomber rerMamed Vf»iael.
In j uries to the works WpVedtrtieiify re
paiyed. A :Ww.eU’e irieh sheH
r/.K .'xjdoded i*Md«;r a St\ tneVi l-vds m ili^
SiH;apr) 1>aU>‘ry, View it- into the on* and.
eapsi wd n ami; •{ was saal killed ai: . u*
evevv Two da v s afte.r wards i ha! *:uu wvas
rmuounteii amlwearly au'nm for s»/-rv)c»;..
Tiie fu iin in:.d ad viuda^e of thesr- emu
bardnjents to the Aiuerieurj fleet tvd^ the
— fire dWeipline" which dh v e;a the
own—' the habit W ;umuw’ and thing mer
Bj u 1 1 s whiled UehtMdyes under lire. Tie y
loarued nOl . to iire u«di! tluw e<*idd mjc
their mark mu) were m.ule to realfn* that
a 1-are.b ^hrij ■ ,is tlirovvn :e\;ly. Th«'we
are . -vyrv v.onde' j>r< *p‘ -»>'h '<nw. but nu n
have nie-.ie a ..Imuj step in ;m)U:o\ iraue
iutr wbee jbt>- j*. . t * v. eK'ndwr tlVein and
aet upoif f Jicin to the liPitiund excitemmU
of fraUho
o/. \ . Ori.$inial from
JNWERSfTY OF MICHIGAN
Go gle
THE NAVAL CAMPAIGN OF 1898 IN THE WEST INDIES.
185
stimulate him into trying a clash for liber-
ty, a second battle-ship was kept along-
side the search-light ship, her broadside
bearing on the port, and her guns ready.
Guantanamo, thirty-eight miles east of
Santiago, was occupied as a base and coal-
ing-station, and proved to be of the great-
est value. The detachment of marines
which had been a month or more at Key
West in a transport landed and encamped
at Playa del Este on the bay. The Mar-
blehead was stationed there, and Com-
mander McCallu was placed in charge.
The Vesuri us joined the fleet and began
the occasional night firing of guncotton
projectiles from her pneumatic guns. The
fuses worked admirably, and the explo-
sion of the shells was terrific. When
they fell and burst in the water, the shock
was felt tli rough the hulls of ships sev-
eral miles away. The firing was neces-
sarily almost at random, and it is doubt-
ful if it did actual harm; but the moral
effect must have been great.
On June 20 the army expedition ar-
rived, in about thirty transports — the
Fifth Corps, commanded by Major-Gener-
al Shafter, and composed chiefly of regu-
lar troops. These troops were convoyed
by the battle ship Indiana , five cruisers,
six small auxiliaries, and three torpedo-
boats, the whole under Captain Taylor.
General Shatters headquarters were in
the Seguranqa. The chief of staff went
out in a cruiser to call upon him, and the
Segura)i£a came in to the blockading line.
Then Admiral Sampson went on board, the
transport proceeded to Aserraderos, and
the Admiral and General went on shore,
and had an interview with the Cuban
generals Garcia, Rabi, and Castillo.
The landing of the army was begun
on June 22, at Daiquiri, thirteen miles
east of Santiago, and was continued on
the four succeeding days at Siboney, eight
miles from Santiago. No opposition was
encountered at either point. In addition
to handling General Shafter's corps, Gen-
eral Garcia and three thousand Cubans
were transported from Aserraderos to
Siboney. Captain Goodrich had charge
of the landing, and all the boats of the
fleet were sent to assist him. It was very
successfully carried out, in the face of
many difficulties. When the disembar-
kation began at Daiquiri, feints were made
at Siboney and at Aguadores. and at Ca-
banas, west of Santiago. Vessels were
assigned by the Admiral to shell the beach
at each of these points; and some of the
waiting transports were sent west of San-
tiago, to convey the impression that a
landing was to be attempted at Cabaflas.
During this bombardment the Texas was
struck by a shell from the Socapa battery,
killing one man and wounding eight. It
was the first hit the Santiago batteries
scored. They made but one more — the
mortar shell that struck the Indiana.
General Shafter advanced upon Santi-
ago. On July 2, as a diversion, and at
his request, the fleet heavily bombarded
the batteries defending the harbor en-
trance, and, as usual, suffered no damage.
The 3d of July, 1898, will be noted for
the most complete destruction of an or-
ganized and powerful naval force record-
ed in history. Not only were all the ves-
sels sunk, or stranded and burned, but the
Spanish Admiral and his surviving cap-
tains, officers, and men were taken prison-
ers. Only a few— possibly a score— swam
from the torpedo-boats to territory held by
the Spanish forces, and were able to reach
Santiago with the news of their defeat.
The ships were stranded in territory held
by the Cuban insurgents, and no line of
retreat was open.
Cervera was ordered to attempt to es-
cape, and after consultation with his cap-
tains, decided that the chances of surprise
would be greatest on Sunday morning,
which, in all navies, is given to a formal
weekly inspection and to church services.
In one respect he was right. It was a
surprise. There was no expectation in
the squadron that the Spaniards would
ever attempt to escape in the daytime;
but as the ships were under way, always
cleared for action, and ready to open fire
as soon as the men could get to the guns,
the surprise made little difference — not
more than two or three minutes in the
time of beginning the fight.
The morning was clear and pleasant,
the sea smooth, the trade-wind light. The
flag ship New York had left her blockad-
ing station, and was on her way to Sibo-
ney. It had become necessary for Ad-
miral Sampson to see and consult with
General Shafter respecting future opera-
tions; and as the great size and weight of
the general made it difficult for him to
come to Siboney, the Admiral consented
to go to the front to his headquarters.
The cavalry escort was ready, and the
Admiral and staff were on the quarter-
deck prepared to go on shore.
Digitized by
Go 'gle
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
Tine i ypimfypi tstKivtiM ivoMUMimNo. run i)+%ypiwH vr £*$Ti.AUi> <♦* jcnk u
THE NAVAL CAMPAIGN OF 1898 IN THE WEST INDIES.
187
The flag-ship was about seven miles east of the
Morro, and a mile from the land, when the smoke
in the channel and the beginning of sharp firing
indicated that the enemy was coming out. In-
stantly the ship was turned about and steamed
back to the westward at her best speed. The dis-
tribution of the squadron at that instant was as
follows: The New York was four miles to the
eastward of her usual blockading station. The
remaining heavy ships were arranged in an irreg-
ular arc of a circle in front of the port, their dis-
tances from its entrance varying probably from
two and a half to four miles. The Iowa lay south
of the entrance, looking directly up the channel.
East of her were the Oregon and Indiana , the lat-
ter about southeast of the entrance. West of the
Iowa were the Texas and Brooklyn. Between
the Iowa and Texas was the vacant post of the
Massachusetts, which had gone at four o'clock
that morning to Guantanamo to coal. The aux-
iliaries Gloucester and Vixen lay closer inshore,
near the flanks of the line — the Gloucester on the
east side, two miles from the entrance, and the
T7.ren on the west side, four miles from the en-
trance. and a mile from shore. The Suwanee
and Vesuvius, which had done arduous work
during the blockade, had also the hard luck of
being absent on that day, having gone to Guan-
tanamo for coal. The torpedo-boat Ericsson was
in company with the New York.
Quarters for inspection bad sounded, and the
men were going to their divisions, when sharp
eyes on the bridge of the Iowa saw the bows of
a cruiser coming around Cay Smith. Instantly
the signal “ Enemy escaping'’ was hoisted, a gun
was fired to call attention to it. and the call to
stations for battle was sounded. Within two
minutes every officer and man in the fleet knew
that the Spanish vessels were coming out.
Cer v era's flag-ship, the Infanta Maria Teresa
(T. on map), led the Spanish column, and follow-
ing her came the Vizcaya (V.). the Cristobal
Colon i C. ), and the Almirante Oquendo ( Oq .),
in that order. These vessels were six or eight
hundred yards apart. Then, with an interval of
al>out twelve hundred yards between them and
the cruisers, came the torpedo boats Furor and
Pluton. Their speed in the channel was prob-
ably ten knots, which each ship increased to the
highest point as soon as the open sea was readied.
Upon passing the Morro each vessel opened fire
with her port battery as she turned to the west-
ward, and the Socapa battery assisted them with
a vigorous cannonade. In less than fifteen min-
utes from the first alarm the entire Spanish squad-
ron was outside, and all the blockading vessels
had opened upon it a sustained and accurate fire.
The map shows the positions of the ships at seven
stages in the progress of the battle.
Original from
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
otAusvs j
Th* >fai tHfc.
Our ships were all heivddisr inalmyfh •.irunnery. aiunn i.hftt was sliowfi on iliftfc
usMud, in obcdkmoe to Uar Admirals in- day; there was also admirable sea mar -
strLietimts,^brob bad been . &i ven to a void':; slop in the )tat»<Miug of those umnenstf
loss of t'n no ill luridugOm vin£; ^ view : vessels at full speed ami ill close quarters
precisely tbiAXitbathm. They 4U steaui Kat. ope uf dhostf e feu r-eyetl capfcivrm h>*h
ed nt, pure. towards the nmmb of the bar- sogiu for an instant of any revolted a i it y
turn, .haring lhos ami rapidly luereasiap vv hadl dnv.dv^rf ppon him, 2<o 'pijo> :•
speed, and opened lire. Thi.% malHjr.nvra. \va^ dinre-. by cave less or bmdy uvbuf
— if. number »d '. esse is moving from die AUUongh the /o/ro and Te.tti* Wore
ferent jiireei i*>ns towards jhe same point shriunlrd U> the smoke of then; £nm>
mvimraily brought kmmi e loser to wieh aUboUgh urn own in the turrets semog
ot.hr r hm‘ as the Spanish vessels turned imperfect l yt fliijjlit tveH mistake a Mend
to the Westward. they nlso tun led to the fojt* a h enemy — Ule Qwgou's &|% as si*e
tv^si wiiril tt7\v.urds them, and soon name passed 'the: Jotnj . was held absolutely m
into ri.u rai Ifd enorsev n, ka;>e The 7b J* diee)^ and ns slje drew alif&d her star
os. whos** hlnekiUUnO: station w,>>: some hoard hroadside Hashed into Han m. some
di^-aoer to the -west sard of tin* lyw i'by of the irons bed nir artnaUy H red •
-rood -<i * fifp to tire eastward to\v.«rd!« flpy the In>r<i$ fort^nMl** d»-*ek The \ JSrooi:-
huhhor month thilt sin* frame mhi- riosO 7fyn. occupying l hr Wesh rifle »?.' posh* on
quarters with- l Vie laUOr fdrip- hdoi'e slip Hi the hjo»*kad»oy hrM • ^hnxl at fad
put brr iidlfil ush;ulboiArd and ffrvards the . Mur^'V .Aidl di> #■
around towards t he Spaniards, bhd to the dree near t in* bpnnish \ ^ ->ej v ./nvi per
eHe ird with Hi hr up At the wmic- ye.j veil tbei’r forma f ion a ml dueenOH, ppt
nnoo lie* t/.fpo/i, wipeh lay at the hog in.'; h<-r h-jrn apori and Homed 54 way ff‘«u
Hue: pihi to tin* ^asiwani of th.e /op-n, Me. | . mb m i In- -a-itsiaviid anti south w md
<sMue -cu^lduLr iiu'on^h Idee a tlmmkr- Id ropie m> d. •ee*,|.erty eourse, emfdoj urn
I® » h - * .b,onr Mod YV-.ros. the bee pp tvr;e> ,:-p ! j.ey n, ,r- flm miWiWi
while -.vaier etndine ijii'ii i. from b»'r bows;; vre w h.-v far! per away from' the
P§| a bred ortervaf If-- ! i.ren battle ships 'rs.au V>'iMWin and epst her some titifc
were huneb-'d rtpo'hH'r li e a- nol -ood- of u\u^ - km me was Stii) ltdt tin; Injidm^
Digitized by Go gle
'0$## THK U aTT LK.
THE 1 /'ALUIAaNTB OQCKSDO
tu the rdthrmgii more to liie
souiUyvk^ed I 1j t a> iiiy;
WlfS i$gi]Oifrfrg iVifil
t nkktg ifi* Im-A? wys cam tug
itjt inttt* iht?
wLi/:h w?l* ifrmUwily
wbibh
]w*plp
sp&C'lffitj
*&eii ttu* t < WOU U1 be *t CbjliSJ/, /UkI it
A’ ;AS h l*ry# o y$. ilirt t i iX* V \
\\ h*<h' *1i’e :30i fe Y ifruki $> \im Pass
mar tlm ;hwciy*r «?* t ir% f jdfc. ,11m; niorni evi ih$r$,
uihl* v so-h ;.v—-»f .!•«»•, M tlndb/dterh/?.
A it. mi •*'•,* it W<*i*)U M-vf }n 'H)-i( vf(v &hei! to W follo/v tii
AVltfil et) K( |ii ii X 4 hfclil
».?m- m -joe. -,iv mi«l without reply
with<y at jvMjlly ; ‘ Qtifr*
\r:\*??*\d and fcl*£ Phi frill and 'i lit*
!:r{i/urttifrrfr\$ u tell ■
<d e^irrft e t
i • y By*4^
a frith * ' v$ w. -■ (f t<H«>xfcp th^i fhe' dw r,f}M>litjuu
strut m] .- '. S A’ u] fig. foiM- ■ iXfr t i t
the ^wmled si)\\ gnA [iuiymmng her si »i<*fivWy
i*0$:
fy rtfi . au.’ ami -was . ?>»»1 y - sr\ *>m nj- ifeiiirfiiufaji-. frui it
&gla Yin'll as;lt>w* of thi-. Colon Whe.i sb»f pal i, of taijf$j
.siureialomi; m; about tile £&me d feta lie w
lliut ;$m was from tire Morro wlieh Uie
Sjmdsh scjtiixil-VOii: cajn w »nil% tin a* iHjr ii-
til m tile /a st pitVl of ihe chase wluit sidy
U€ vheir best *peed, U*i. iui he fi r*t,
limrmsit \g< but The Giuncvnififr^ coo) mitl gallant fijrht-
&&SX&A v^rv slow rn her jhrputioiji )iu» .woo deserved reco^fiOOo*. She
.A.iieui of them was & beitliaui is aii rnon ly u o p i>»i »sae:l ra**’!; t -- ronnev-
:e;/ij who-h they liitil always o.v- IV Mr. Vteipoat Moreau's tWr^/r, in
a k'.olin^ part . Biit it Was which Mio-hi ^|i,' rations only wemna fie,
w 1 1 i e i i o > mvti maord with -a battery
■feSS^l Could do ol >.i\ ■potiuder and thrH^j>rhiilthh* untis.
A t, ilj e n» i a^et slie be^asi (irihg- 4t t iui ar-
,Un t sjjlil pe nKh V } Hg Ute
The des^^yers^ &p\] ^U'y U-ouJ<l
rb isr *t% 'W' a \i i wyi £) i t ^]o wed
ithd v^i : tlidy t i l’tvl fit down, lits ^iitl i ,'mirii d'W&i Jo-ziAiVi ug -
.^Oti !y Viii)t miv.vtl and vvaHnl
;>^>s6tVV^h.l: } in *sh small errdo .whu*ii be I; regard--.
ej his prO|>**r 'Wfi&i th>\V
f]«eic iippeaeeVi \>*y ^red ftiv t heni at y^t? :
lirfUlt f?*v\v>1r6l)H. atUhe: leaf! koi‘t.st IomI opened' a rapid --ohI ae
•'ivtorh IO' he HtU-mp:okf' vm^fr tin-*/ whf.eh |>e eoidmoetl o
u « ii t i.ied f*t elv^4 i ra p a nd nHti) If my tiylihal lrisa sviikio er
Ti »e I )m i:t:W; Sh i pi? ^ ^aa o
n iipftiVdr of (hene J<»1| wi i^ti*
H?'»: up
(h a|ijuM*don vxnrtl v tin/ Cledit fdi* jhf-rV
; is it- 1 ha t a la ygfr
kw monthly
iiAM'ms
Thfc'.resf wf 1 1 » *) .Gory- vs s.»iv i i.mI»1 .Tile.': ihmrib rumiiag for her h»>, .she ivnuV
fi^r rush of the i'-n'HTii slops- ciiidind / the harbor qiatriin^ ii a i cl itui
them past o»!»- srp/mdKum but during this T.mi j u i no, an aveiYi gfc speed nfooiv *ib.7
pasmgO Um*\ m!T‘bl v fyiiOl H.UV kliOtv
vVtfhtming dm v>f‘ lb* U:-« y ii- .,t,ij(ls Th«*y Houii after Urn w »> mramhu
£mVu*ged fro?n t ill- barbor r;» ] ' *.] i y t tb> A <1 u » ♦ ra ) »:iiri*eNVi ihe imln.nut yin ;••-
nod sbrnudo-d m ihi'U: ))‘VU V'Ut turn a nd re..su me t in- bloejc.ule « •-/
speedily Ll » rS S0/oj;e ■ diminished, and hfiiii: aud :U AservVtero , t \*y Joil‘0 and 'AV^G
ly omstd, a? their lire Vv ns smme<)f t.],»dr SO// »v<*r.e m*d *•»•*$ 1« . hbriomi »>me tbo vb.,<,
nvn bvmg drived from 1 1 » e gum by our Ifbg , ami f }htn<yst^\ ujni
O-Mi ucnve^hviis. The Jform 'hn^M*- -ami the fJiumni and IhM* ^Vinrb iMta rd m
Qqwwjo were amm on lire aft, ami were ih?vt time u^m ' tlm vmip, r ■- •m-d
run ashore ejn>e t *>g^» Jii-r ut Nirna Ninny ttphmsh priMmenw 'i\ * m-jv<
amt al Juan Gonzales, sewn and a half ihttkni ji'», ami danger; Urn vesmlv wm.-
ami eight miles from thv Mono The 'burning fiercely. i he»r loaded gun* and re-
Vizetiyn dung- on half an hour h mg (My -.serves of ntumuioUon on deck v ere e\p)ob
aud then, burning like the minus, was . mg with the ln*;u. ami the the. m<y;M <u,
brae had at Asernuleros miles- t>m»« any inn men I nodi (inv u::.;u m
^mniiiro. This left only the Crixtbhnl There Was aJso v>nM<bmtm! sea, me? ihe
. Sin t was Irvtinv ju-.f \>m
sn.lv of Himn lint a!i V.4s
’ : ' sa ve Jif<v iiff, u fe\y wituu^sr .
eioinny lo it, iidi
THE NaVaL CAMPAIGN OF i£S8 I IKIUE
Sooapa ba t fe*ry *hs ; >y‘*d 1 ua jUr
UiUt Ai/ fcbtf destroyers', Ah
e^Airiirj^viViTi of £fe.,Hp& bisk-
YCAyds shji’.vrtl fbat iiwiv .of , ;‘ /
ih%- j>m* *tghte 'iwe 8vit)* ^yt ' • ',
a; ii;<£h $|§h;
Utucek of ffi.ur /t&du^kuii v / 1
yltnte frb M^wy Evhieut),v> |Hj|
»U reining’ JHHHfi
4) e 1 1 1 jjiii i .; 4^?T<x>^.^a| (*>u / :f ;’ ‘ jHHH
-njj •hy^by ft y<y tt&y had v 'v j^?5S:
mb. 'ji£^ dm*t
,y-;y
<i 4V*' t 'rri-tki ,U;‘:: r;:-4 "• :.;:
1 1 U? }*iili l* :H
ydoseb jp -a mi ice; the nhe-
n{?\ 4$**| ) •: Wee "pyh $$
m&htyd • of : &iu j k f •-.
na j~ of piaift m’iC iC i. UM}&.
x-ufiivV bt fb* Ci$ -ni<4iV» l-V' iV -'
<|Ke*tjMtii .^f it
> 1 1 M st vri^fe- y >i&k> 1 i life p& jfiir
rbo i * h t ■;$ m i&Mti&ky# of thoroug 1 1 - ‘gki h g fchtu d by SuW^fti? i » f $ A u i rj| pjrtmi Ij v dry
>!Uin.erv in\\rit\t'*\:.- tbsif uet j ve , On the i A ( 1 4 i wo «siUh‘-
At - £^&k *$tY. $ h 1 y 4 the ^puhiukfe unknn] from GtUhfarooTiu to
broo^lvCfbh ^vwix«; $I+r<y'‘h:x to (be merit h >odUh?m 1 i? i?> bomba riiiHcnt with {likleem
iff t.he harbor b-i ib»- ]>ur}h^<- of sinking inch guns, Gift a ivu«: \\u | 'of Urn arm is* »«:o
ho noth ob*4mc*.sii£* iU*s ehanM-t. In mat le ibis mmece^sarv-
viekMi/ iie^- Ui,-y; ah‘»- lUiieii by Ibo c'oms .fnly >u \\ considernble naval aclivity ?4r
Mf an A eu il^ Onbgm Tliree
.; yr^^iuin;v -wcMin filched ;. hut ?|i4* ,_at-Uo'ks \veiy rnudtyOfi Man n i 1 1 o.: ;M \t; Iu^t.
'irti-ui 'if rih- irhamud xy;^ ooi com- cm» .the. 18th, by hacu small vessels. They
.'*;h»U W^els could stVti pas'S; Tii is at- xinh.Hed the hm ber iurd • fioiubntil^d 'the
by ike* sJioYte W<Ucrie.sv: ‘walir»tK f rhi*f«; -4e8u:f>y''m^ thiyc fyHn^nvrtSi
aM.i {:,(- j:,l{*uia wjm ^}nick by mi Oghk u y ti:oM :bbip and fmuk^kubkatk but [»ur
biob ui-wiar .siicil. w iuClf ryplndeil in tlic pnsely doing gs Iitth*. ilauiego ay -posj*. il.de
<[ii;t>lci^—k>r(,u uritel v at timt iHJo; fo iliiy io.ivVb A kutrih siitaek wi$> mmie
m»-m. v.ic.vm UpuK- Huh pim/<5 n.n A ngiv^t :\2 ; in . compel
Every ant' felt Uial \\\v of ?u surryutkoy l>m. w intorrnptHl • by a
tii^aiU Uh* mnl uf SpunJWh }]iig of n-u<^% ^vlxieh hrtiiigfrfc a
the war. Ttitf failing tt» ombtitey an yf* tv l ram aaurmbcuig t)>e SigutugMk' the
fvicnf *^|Uitkrou uuckr Adfmra! Cabiava phai:^ p.rotMbh},; y'Tbti hiiy of S\}W.. on' *be
)jriivt*b U»;h u> plafnV 4n>ulU .not tm hlhr/L . Mortiicnvt >-o?j.si, was orioipicil on dn) v Si-
Olid t lutj O;- .;i-( o,:Ws'f* of ivuv.M o. w.r . bro - Vi.V ' jui “X pc<1 H*V>n }i >f four - Ji I- i I * . ■V<4* fifi [ s .
ken thAuM-jil ^baftyry voyrred Into an nod the Spuuisb ortH^r -Jury?. J non w vO.
i;rrni>o*M with t.hy ?<t>anisti cmmujAmkr, sm>k ut her aurhofs.
vinivh cooiniu^tj, v-i{b 4 b?iO inU*rrnty After the. .surrmubk of Snnfie-ya the
'•nit nut «? .Jib! v ]T.. when UnV eby heavy 8hl|>8 .assembicci' -;M fneitM immio
Uf -»v«i flbnoy t b N jiMv-rrnptiou. On the ikr overimuluii-*. uiid rejnii’rs; n; « n o utory
. Ihtn aild tbtiCbiikh^ ^k^bif foiy ' Aflbutlhy' X^fkbaiJivlhtA*
r*‘ »<* b.v.nbitff.hk Smtia^f fror*» Agii.nb* W.ibd I. fVv'Mig Irk bro.nl jVcnn.ynf kb the
o v ^ojn? •. 1 i v r 1 b?!n«{rc*| yards liiscmU. Xt-lcOt'k. bad ••.! .» ?o tb» .voutii 8hk* 'ijl
ikmy bv o,(iihpa>- ' .liio-s , !so(! *>m ploying Cuba abon* d<Uv j. Mini jab*-- >biftvd bk-
itu!) bii^kiikrh y*uhs. Tbe fall of tbr pm mat it;. i*>v H |Ht; f k-btffW .-. t.ak) t if. 'Om n ^kkU;
>!n.i v'-;a- ••)•■» <oo*d ky reports from tin* of lh e ‘ v J V;? ^ *• i* 1 » Kvj i » a.» lr«.‘ ’ Tbc irncoio
bnU n^osnok^d. tbroimb :i Ikld b b- heavy, ships-, wyrb t*» form U ,kr‘«*vor
crapli lino and a signal Aiathm on shoHy on.: H^ju^droii ' to see the fester.11
The nr,ivti<:*> was very accurate, find-, as r*m fliiout’b ilk Metiit eTrnuea m .
THK ‘OF T0E *’ UfciN A MFHCf^DK^.
Go gle
N&VY MONTHLY
liMimxr
Gpvipral had * mam to Sanlia^f in them wav phuw] upon n»di vuL’a)^.' apu
Urn Vu/e on J nly 1 P; .re? mooed there ami these fwljvidMuis w ere glvA'p viiine fr^*
P GnnuUnnmir uuU! J uly .21, winot he- raw* unihorH v ami ppl rmnrn. In a. wmH.
sailed for Pee* to loco . u itb :\ powerful it was Mr.o^lu anmH**n«.j eon
eon vn'y The' ‘ b:Ufie Wip }faswh useffJb dinted 'l.y emupep-ut mm... Pm- %.n4<y>
tbiW lire airti- of the Bumui of Grdnanue wmfHV timiP
i (\ m*$M*W* WtTP srut to support the le*S R found eiUtS UiC Hiv
1‘ ' j < * ne Bmom exprxIiR oh and vnpealod .mppues or simmunbuoi jjfffi
A -slyorrh of the unYiii optM;atip!>s jtF . everybody. During the m-mumm :>*: -nm:-
tin- vv:,0' <s- not romplfte Without a word |iipdero dvel picked men of dloy buvy' had
resptuVuxtr the admirable systems of ad- bfeh at its head ami in jt.s severe? /Vjk*r!y
mi nist ration and supply. Alifum^h ibe Hmeut*. Sieard, Foldin', and Saonwo;ivj^pE
enlisted forre was more than -dtmhVd. pounded ( i'Xrjl, the present uhivL Tim
&rul the will H her of vessels in <•< muuisshm bureau yvaa oripnumi for work ;;*mt •:- ■»
♦pijrv i»r-S],Mt m/er\ thing wen? mny its* inth- expuiJMtim it knew v» bar it s r^..>orry-
iv ;o)«l idfeuouly. Coni was almiuhm»Jy and, Iktoo- snli. it know \?\mi d
fuipulmb urn) Wu, m- ovu la rk i |p m am- lacked., and Inov to arraii^e to i'iiako- iff**
pm epoiiii.il aw, ruber at. Key West or at dmirimirins ^ootL
‘St emu -eolJiers we»v: .piu- . The o,-ou nf Urn men's, health *UG'>o.wu:
eluded surd plrioed ' titular mum! <mr»nbuod. ^runfyingr, Writs -results. Thyy had m-vo
and ? hosu were stippimoenmd by charier- on board slop t-rveml trnmfhv. .without
ed mioeoHWs. rr.breO Supply vessels mov- liberty vw rein sm! dm— aom,a of Uirin >>.* ? mi
ohiiuned and. iiUed \vi lb refrigerating ttV; '♦d.^bt. nnmt bs-Wn ..a tropical, .ehuoitm'
pbnts,. hTx^o of these were oooph or «1 lo and praeticfiliy *e sea ull of tin* rune-,
ilfslrihule fresh ipeat, ^ce, upd ve^e-fahles The shi|»s won- healed idJoy.o the pern?AI
by.-.
o.wif. itie^;' au4 the. ytf-iv-.:
;t^totV iufparred
,hy tii^ x^dr MnceHsit y of
tcyepipjg:
a ncl Ihttehys eh *sed to
.jyy/dii- ■' airy ’
•:;i.ig'!n^::; , KoW’illuhi mi
dtSiUlVilfdH’'
s:uper vMxm; the yre^;s
m>rv m A tr^h^t witeh ;
djosUiitins Were *Wy
•perideiii trt o^fdhVfi
condi limn aud ru^tly
for it i defi iiTtn f n rthor
service ui Cn ba o>
vr here. Gup Hay -* ytefe
ropoid. is an ibiustra-
rioti. Oti AngVfAt 5
there \vi*re wytUUMi.
'
Go gle
* •. ... |>figi.jiBj from •
UNtVflftSlXV OF MICHIGAN
THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
193
trenches, and had done constant outpost
and picket duty in the woods; but sanitary
regulations had been strictly enforced.
As a result of these favorable condi-
tions there was marked contentment and
confidence among the men. One of the
pleasantest features of the war was the
attitude of the enlisted force. In the
close quarters of a ship much of their
conversation among themselves is un-
avoidably overheard, and their senti-
ments cannot fail to become known.
During the whole war there was no grum-
bling— no complaint of deprivation of
liberty, of food, of discipline, or of work;
and the last was often severe, as the
ships were frequently coaled. On the
contrary, they continually talked of the
war and of fighting; of what had been
done and of what remained to be done;
and their conduct had never been so good.
They were too busy and too interested to
get into mischief.
A feature of the war was the Squadron
Bulletin — a daily paper printed on a
hand-press in the New York for squadron
distribution. As all despatches and re-
ports came to the Admiral, the flag-ship
became the sole repository of informa-
tion; and other ships, although in com-
pany and not a mile away, might be quite
ignorant of most interesting events. The
demand for news was natural and prop-
er, and a daily paper was the easiest
method of satisfying it. Each evening the
chief of staff dictated to a stenographer
the facts relating to naval and military
movements which had taken place or
which had been reported during the day.
This went at once to press, and was sent
out the next morning. It was much ap-
preciated by the men and officers of the
fleet, attracted no little attention outside,
and has been commented upon by an
English service paper as worthy of imita-
tion.
THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.
PART I.
I.
“ T7 OU need the rest,” said the Business
1 End ; ‘’and your wife wants you to
go, as well as your doctor. Besides, it's
your Sabbatical year, and you could send
back a lot of stuff for the magazine.”
“Is that your notion of a Sabbatical
year?" asked the editor.
“No; I throw that out as a bait to
your conscience. You needn't write a
line while you're gone. I wish you
wouldn't, for your own sake; although
every number that hasn’t got you in it is
a back number for me.”
“ That's very nice of you, Fulkerson,”
said the editor. “I suppose you realize
that it’s nine years since we took Every
Other HVefc from Dryfoos?”
“Well, that makes it all the more Sab-
batical." said Fulkerson. 44 The two extra
years that you've put in here, over and
above the old style Sabbatical seven, are
just so much more to your credit. It was
your right to go, two years ago. and now
it's your duty. Couldn’t you look at it
in that light?*’
“ I dare say Mrs. March could,” the
editor assented. “I don’t believe she
could be brought to regard it as a plea-
sure on any other terms.”
’ Of course not,” said Fulkerson. “ If
you won’t take a year, take three months,
and call it a Sabbatical summer; but go,
anyway. You can make up half a dozen
numbers ahead, and Tom, here, knows
your ways so well that you needn’t think
about Every Other Week from the time
you start till the time you try to bribe the
customs inspector when you get back. I
can take a hack at the editing myself, if
Tom’s inspiration gives out, and put a
little of my advertising fire into the
thing.” He laid his hand on the shoul-
der of the young fellow who stood smil-
ing by, and pushed and shook him in the
liking there was between them. “Now
you go , March! Mrs. Fulkerson feels
just as I do about it; we had our outing
last year, and we want Mrs. March and
you to have yours. You let me go down
and engage your passage, and — ”
“No. no!" the editor rebelled. “I’ll
think about it;" but as he turned to the
work that he was so fond of and so weary
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
mmm
“WE VOVhV (,'A.Uh It ontji ..WfcttM&j' jOPHNK?-. Jl'
. , ■ . ..■■■■ > '
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
195
of, lie tried not to think of the question
again, till he closed his desk in the after-
noon, and started to walk home; the doc-
tor had said he ought to walk, and lie did
so, though he longed to ride, and looked
wistfully at the passing cars.
He knew he was in a rut, as his wife
often said ; but if it was a rut, it was a
support too; it kept him from wobbling.
She always talked as if the flowery fields
of youth lay on either side of the dusty
road he had been going so long, and
he had but to step aside from it, to be
among the butterflies and buttercups
again; he sometimes indulged this illu-
sion, himself, in a certain ironical spirit
which mocked while it caressed the no-
tion. They had a tacit agreement that
their youth, if they were ever to find it
again, was to be looked for in Europe,
where they met when they were young,
and they had never been quite without
the hope of going back there, some day,
for a long sojourn. They had not seen
the time when they could do so; they
were dreamers, but, as they recognized,
even dreaming is not free from care; and
in his dream March had been obliged to
work pretty steadily, if not too intensely.
He had been forced to forego the dis-
tinctly literary ambition with which he
had started in life because he had their
common living to make, and he could not
make it by writing graceful verse, or even
graceful prose. He had been many years
in a sufficiently distasteful business, and
he had lost any thought of leaving it
when it left him, perhaps because his hold
on it had always been rather lax, and he
had not been able to conceal that he dis-
liked it. At any rate, he was supplanted
in his insurance agency at Boston by a
subordinate in his office, and though he
was at the same time offered a place of
nominal credit in the employ of the com-
pany, he was able to decline it in grace
of a chance which united the charm of
congenial work with the solid advantage
of a better salary than he had been get-
tin <r for work he hated. It was an in-
credible chance, but it was rendered ap-
preciably real by the necessity it involved
that they should leave Boston, where they
had lived all their married life, where
Mrs. March as well as their children was
born, and where all their tender and fa-
miliar ties were, and come to New York,
where the literary enterprise which form-
ed his chance was to be founded.
Vol. XCVIII.— No. 584.-25
It was then a magazine of a new sort,
which his business partner had imagined
in such leisure as the management of a
newspaper syndicate afforded him, and
had always thought of gettiug March to
edit. The magazine which is also a book
has since been realized elsewhere on more
or less prosperous terms, but not for any
long period, and Every Other Week was
apparently the only periodical of the
kind conditioned for survival. It was at
first backed by unlimited capital, and it
had the instant favor of a popular mood,
which has since changed, but which did
not change so soon that the magazine
had not time to establish itself in a wide
acceptance. It was now no longer a
novelty, it was no longer in the maiden
blush of its first success, but it had enter-
ed upon its second youth with the reason-
able hope of many years of prosperity
before it. In fact it was a very com-
fortable living for all concerned, and the
Marches had the conditions, almost dis-
mayingly perfect, in which they had often
promised themselves to go and be young
again in Europe, when they rebelled
at finding themselves elderly in Amer-
ica. Their daughter was married, and so
very much to her mother’s mind that she
did not worry about her even though she
lived so far away as Chicago, still a wild
frontier town to her Boston imagination ;
and their son as soon as he left college had
taken hold on Every Other Week, under
his father's instruction, with a zeal and
intelligence which won him Fulkerson’s
praise as a chip of the old block. These
two liked each other, and worked into
each other's hands as cordially and apt-
ly as Fulkerson and March had ever
done. It amused the father to see his
son offering Fulkerson the same deference
which the Business End paid to seniority
in March himself; but in fact, Fulker-
son’s forehead was getting, as he said,
more intellectual every day ; and the
years were pushing them all along to-
gether.
Still, March had kept on in the old rut.
and one day he fell down in it. He had
a long sickness, and when he was well of
it, he was so slow in getting his grip of
work again that lie was sometimes deep-
ly discouraged. His wife shared his de-
pression, whether he showed or whether
he hid it, and when the doctor advised
his going abroad, she abetted the doctor
with all the strength of a woman’s liy-
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
196
HARPER'S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
gienic intuitions. March himself willing-
ly consented, at first; but as soon as he
got strength for his work, he began to
temporize and to demur. He said that
lie believed it would do him just as much
good to go to Saratoga, where they always
had such a good time, as to go to Carls-
bad; and Mrs. March had been obliged
several times to leave him to his own un-
doing; she always took him more vigor-
ously in hand afterwards.
II.
When he got home from the Every
Other Week office, the afternoon of that
talk with the Business End, he wanted
to laugh with his wife at Fulkerson’s
notion of a Sabbatical year. She did not
think it was so very droll j she even
urged it seriously against him, as if she
had now the authority of Holy Writ for
forcing him abroad; she found no relish
of absurdity in the idea that it was his
duty to take this rest which had been his
right before.
He abandoned himself to a fancy which
had been working to the surface of his
thought. “We could call it our Silver
Wedding Journey, and go round to all the
old places, and see them in the reflected
light of the past.”
44 Oh, we could r she responded pas-
sionately; and he had now the delicate
responsibility of persuading her that he
was joking.
He Could think of nothing better than
a return to Fulkerson’s absurdity. 44 It
would be our Silver Wedding Journey
just as it would be my Sabbatical year —
a good deal after date. But I suppose
that would make it all the more silvery.”
She faltered in. her elation. “Didn’t
you say a Sabbatical year yourself?” she
demanded.
“Fulkerson said it; but it was a fig-
urative expression.”
“And I suppose the Silver Wedding
Journey was a figurative expression too!”
44 It was a notion that tempted me; I
thought you would enjoy it. Don’t you
suppose I should be glad too, if we could
go over, and find ourselves just as we
were when we first met there?”
“No; I don't believe now that you
care anything about it.”
“Well, it couldn't be done, anyway;
so that doesn't matter.”
44 It could be done, if you were a mind
to think so. And it would be the great-
est inspiration to you. You are always
longing for some chance to do original
work, to get away from your editing, but
you’ve let the time slip by without really
trying to do anything; I don’t call those
little studies of yours in the magazine
anything; and now you won’t take the
chance that’s almost forcing itself upon
you. You could write an original book
of the nicest kind; mix up travel and fic-
tion; get some love in.”
“Oh, that’s the stalest kind of thing!"
“ Well, but you could see it from a per-
fectly new point of view. You could look
at it as a sort of dispassionate witness, and
treat it humorously — of course it is ridic-
ulous— and do something entirely fresh."
44 It wouldn’t work. It would be carry-
ing water on both shoulders. The fiction
would kill the travel, the travel would
kill the fiction ; the love and the humor
wouldn’t mingle any more than oil and
vinegar.”
“ Well, and what is better than a
salad?”
“ But this would be all salad-dressing,
and nothing to put it on.” She was silent,
and he yielded to another fancy. “We
might imagine coming upon our former
selves over there, and travelling round
with them — a wedding journey en partie
carrie .”
“Something like that. I call it a very
poetical idea,” she said with a sort of pro-
visionally, as if distrusting another am-
bush.
44 It isn’t so bad,” he admitted. 44 How
young we were, in those days!”
“ Too young to know what a good time
we were having,” she said, relaxing her
doubt for the retrospect. 44 1 don’t feel as
if I really saw Europe, then; I was too
inexperienced, too ignorant, too simple. I
would like to go, just to make sure that I
had been.” He was smiling again in the
way he had when anything occurred to
him that amused him, and she demanded,
“What is it?”
44 Nothing. I was wishing we could go
in the consciousness of people who actu-
ally hadn’t been before — carry them all
through Europe, and let them see it in
the old, simple-hearted American way."
She shook her head. 44 You couldn't!
They’ve all been !”
4 4 All but about sixty or seventy mill-
ions,” said March.
44 Well, these are just the millions you
don’t know, and couldn’t imagine.”
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
197
44 I’m not so sure of that.’1
“ And even if you could imagine them,
you couldn't make them interesting. All
the interesting ones have been, anyway.”
“ Some of the uninteresting ones too. I
used to meet some of that sort over there.
I believe I would rather chance it for my
pleasure with those that hadn’t been.”
“Then why not do it? I know you
could get something out of it.”
“ It might be a good thing,” he mused,
“to take a couple who had passed their
whole life here in New York, too poor
and too busy ever to go, and had a perfect
famine for Europe all the time. I could
have them spend their Sunday afternoons
going aboard the different boats, and look-
ing up their accommodations. I could
have them sail, in imagination, and dis-
cover an imaginary Europe, and give their
grotesque misconceptions of it from trav-
els and novels against a background of
purely American experience. We needn’t
go abroad to manage that. I think it
would be rather nice.”
“I don’t think it would be nice in the
least,” said Mrs. March, “and if you don’t
want to talk seriously, I would rather not
talk at all.”
“ Well, then, let’s talk about our Silver
Wedding Journey.”
“ I see. You merely want to tease, and
I am not in the humor for it.”
She said this in a great many different
ways, and then she was really silent. He
perceived that she was hurt; and he tried
to win her back to good-humor. He asked
her if she would not like to go over to
Hoboken and look at one of the Han-
seatic League steamers, some day; and
she refused. When he sent the next day
and got a permit to see the boat, she con-
sented to go.
in.
He was one of those men who live from
the inside outward; he often took a hint
for his actions from his fancies; and now
because he had fancied some people going
to look at steamers on Sundays, he chose
the next Sunday himself for their visit to
the Hanseatic boat at Hoboken. To be
sure it was a leisure day with him, but he
might have taken the afternoon of any
other day, for that matter, and it was re-
al iy that invisible thread of association
which drew him.
The Colmannia had been in long
enough to have made her toilet for the
outward voyage, and was looking her
best. She was tipped and edged with
shining brass, without and within, and
was red -carpeted and white- painted as
only a ship knows how to be. A little
uniformed steward ran before the visit-
ors, and showed them through the dim
white corridors into typical state-rooms
on the different decks; and then let them
verify their first impression of the gran-
deur of the dining-saloon, and the luxury
of the ladies’ parlor and music -room.
March made his wife observe that the
tables and sofas and easy -chairs, which
seemed so carelessly scattered about, were
all suggestively screwed fast to the floor
against rough weather; and he amused
himself with the heavy German browns
and greens and coppers of the decora-
tions, which he said must have been stud-
ied in color from sausage, beer^ and spin-
ach, to the effect of those large march-
panes in the roof. She laughed with him
at the tastelessness of the race which they
were destined to marvel at more and
more; but she made him own that the
stewardesses whom they saw were charm-
ingly like serving-maids in the Fliegende
Blatter; when they went ashore she
challenged his silence for some assent to
her own conclusion that the Colmannia
was perfect.
“ She has only one fault,” he assented.
44 She’s a ship.”
“ Yes,” said his wife, “ and I shall want
to look at the Norumbia before I decide.”
Then he saw that it was only a ques-
tion which steamer they should take, and
not whether they should take any. He
explained, at first gently and afterwards
savagely, that their visit to the Colman-
nia was quite enough for him, and that
the vessel was not built that he would be
willing to cross the Atlantic in.
When a man has gone so far as that
he has committed himself to the opposite
course in almost so many words; and
March was neither surprised nor abashed
when he discovered himself, before they
reached home, offering his wife many
reasons why they should go to Europe.
She answered to all, No, he had made her
realize the horror of it so much that she
was glad to give it up. She gave it up,
with the best feeling; all that she would
ask of him was that he should never
mention Europe to her again. She could
imagine how much he disliked to go, if
such a ship as the Colmannia did not
make him want to go.
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At the bottom of his heart he knew
that he had not used her very well. He
had kindled her fancy with those notions
of a Sabbatical year and a Silver Wedding
Journey, and when she was willing to re-
nounce both he had persisted in taking
her to see the ship, only to tell her after-
wards that he would not go abroad on
any account. It was by a psychological
juggle which some men will understand
that he allowed himself the next day to
get the sailings of the Norumbia from
the steamship office; he also got a plan
of the ship showing the most available
state-rooms, so that they might be able to
choose between her and the Colmannia
from all the facts.
IV.
From this time their decision to go
was none the less explicit because so per-
fectly tacit.
They began to amass maps and guides.
She got a Baedeker for Austria and he
got a Bradshaw for the continent, which
was never of the least use there, but was
for the present a mine of unavailable in-
formation. He got a phrase-book, too,
and tried to rub up his German. He
used to read German, when he was a
boy, with a young enthusiasm for its ro-
mantic poetry, and now, for the sake of
Schiller and Uhland and Heine, he held
imaginary conversations with a barber,
a bootmaker, and a banker, and tried
to taste the joy which he had not known
in the language of those poets for a whole
generation. He perceived, of course, that
unless the barber, the bootmaker, and the
banker answered him in terms which the
author of the phrase-book directed them
to use, he should not get on with them
beyond his first question; but he did not
allow this to spoil his pleasure in it. In
fact, it was with a tender emotion that
lie realized how little the world, which
had changed in everything else so great-
ly, had changed in its ideal of a phrase-
book.
Mrs. March postponed the study of her
Baedeker to the time and place for it;
and addressed herself to the immediate
business of ascertaining the respective
merits of the Colmannia and Norumbia.
She carried on her researches solely
among persons of her own sex; its ex-
periences were alone of that positive
character which brings conviction, and
she valued them equally at first or sec-
ond hand. She heard of ladies who
would not cross in any boat but the Col-
mannia,, and who waited for months to
get a room on her; she talked with la-
dies who said that nothing would induce
them to cross in her. There were ladies
who said she had twice the motion that
the Norumbia had, and the vibration
from her twin screws was frightful; it
always was, on those twin-screw boats,
and it did not affect their testimony wTith
Mrs. March that the Norumbia was a
twin-screw boat too. It was repeated to
her in the third or fourth degree of hear-
say that the discipline on the Colmannia
was as perfect as on the Cunarders; la-
dies whose friends had tried every line
assured her that the table of the Norum-
bia was almost as good as the table of
the French boats. To the best of the
belief of lady witnesses still living who
had friends on board, the Colmannia
had once got aground, and the Norumbia
had once had her bridge carried off by a
tidal wave; or it might be the Colman-
nia; they promised to ask and let her
know. Their lightest word availed with
her against the most solemn assurances
of their husbands, fathers, or brothel’s,
who might be all very well on land, but
in navigation were not to be trusted ; they
would say anything from a reckless and
culpable optimism. She obliged March
all the same to ask among them, but she
recognized their guilty insincerity when
he came home saying that one man had
told him you could have played croquet
on the deck of the Colmannia the whole
way over when he crossed, and another
that he never saw the racks on in three
passages he had made in the Norumbia.
The weight of evidence was, he thought,
in favor of the Norumbia , but when they
went another Sunday to Hoboken, and
saw the ship, Mrs. March liked her so
much less than the Colmannia that she
could hardly wait for Monday to come;
she felt sure all the good rooms on the
Colmannia would be gone before they
could engage one.
From a consensus of the nerves of all
the ladies left in town so late in the sea-
son, she knew that the only place on any
steamer where your room ought to be
was probably just where they could not
get it. If you went too high, you felt
the rolling terribly, and people tramping
up and down on the promenade under
your window kept you awake the whole
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night; if you went too low, you felt the
engine thump, thump, thump in your
head the whole way over. If you went
too far forward, you got the pitching; if
you went aft, on the kitchen side, you got
the smell of the cooking. The only place,
really, was just back of the dining-saloon
on the south side of the ship; it was
smooth there, and it was quiet, and you
had the sun in your window all the way
over. He asked her if he must take their
room there or nowhere, and she answered
that he must do his best, but that she
would not be satisfied with any other
place.
In his despair he went down to the
steamer office, and took a room which
one of the clerks said was the best. When
he got home, it appeared from reference
to the ship’s plan that it was the very
room his wife had wanted from the be-
ginning, and she praised him as if he had
used a wisdom beyond his sex in getting it.
He was in the enjoyment of his unmer-
ited honor when a belated lady came with
her husband for an evening call, before
going into the couniry. At sight of the
plans of steamei*s on the Marches’ table,
she expressed the greatest wonder and
delight that they were going to Europe.
They had supposed everybody knew it,
by this time, but she said she had not
heard a word of it; and she went on with
some felicitations which March found
rather unduly filial. In getting a little
past the prime of life he did not like to
be used with too great consideration of
his years, and he did not think that he
and his wife were so old that they need
be treated as if they were going on a gold-
en wedding journey, and heaped with all
sorts of impertinent prophecies of their
enjoying it so much and being so much
the better for the little outing! Under
his breath, he confounded this lady for
her impudence; but he schooled himself
to let her rejoice at their going on a
Hanseatic boat, because the Germans
were always so careful of you. She
made her husband agree with her, and it
came out that he had crossed several
times on both the Colmannia and the
Norumbia. He volunteered to say that
the Colmannia was a capital sea -boat;
she did not have her nose under water
all the time; she was steady as a rock;
and the captain and the kitchen were
simply out of sight; some people did call
her unlucky.
“ Unlucky?” Mrs. March echoed, faint-
ly. 41 Why do they call her unlucky?”
“Oh, I don’t know. People will say
anything about any boat. You know
she broke her shaft, once, and once she
got caught in the ice.”
Mrs. March joined him in deriding the
superstition of people, and she parted gay-
ly with this over- good your^g couple. As
soon as they were gone, March knew that
she would say: “You must change that
ticket, my dear. We will go in the Nor -
umbia .”
“Suppose I can’t get as good a room
on the Norumbiaf ”
“ Then we must stay.”
In the morning after a night so bad
that it was worse than no night at all,
she said she would go to the steamship’s
office with him and question them up
about the Colmannia . The people there
had never heard she was called an un-
lucky boat; they knew of nothing dis-
astrous in her history. They were so
frank and so full in their denials, and so
kindly patient of Mrs. March’s anxieties,
that he saw every word was carrying
conviction of their insincerity to her.
At the end she asked what rooms were
left on the Norumbia, and the clerk whom
they had fallen to looked through his
passenger list with a shaking head. He
was afraid there was nothing they would
like.
“But we would take anything ,” she
entreated, and March smiled to think of
his innocence in supposing for a moment
that she had ever dreamed of not going.
“We merely want the best,” he put in.
“One flight up, no noise or dust, with
sun in all the windows, and a place for
fire on rainy days.”
They must be used to a good deal of
American joking which they do not un-
derstand, in the foreign steamship of-
fices. The clerk turned unsmilingly to
one of his superiors and asked him some
question in German which March could
not catch, perhaps because it formed no
part of a conversation with a barber, a
bootmaker, or a banker. A brief drama
followed, and then the clerk pointed to a
room on the plan of the Norumbia and
said it had just been given up, and they
could have it if they would decide to take
it at once.
They looked, and it was in the very
place of their room on the Colmannia ;
it was within one of being the same num-
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
ber. It was so providential, if it was
providential at all, that they were both
humbly silent a moment; even Mrs.
March was silent. In this supreme mo-
ment she would not prompt her husband
by a word, a glance, and it was from his
own free will that he said, “We will take
it.”
He thought it was his free will, but
perhaps one’s will is never free; and this
may have been an instance of pure de-
terminism from all the events before it.
No event that followed affected it, though
the day after they had taken their pas-
sage on the Nomimbia he heard that she
had once been in the worst sort of storm
in the month of August. He felt obliged
to impart the fact to his wife, but she said
that it proved nothing for or against the
ship, and confounded him more by her
reason than by all her previous unrea-
son. Reason is what a man is never
prepared for in women ; perhaps because
he finds it so seldom in men.
V.
During nearly the whole month that
now passed before the date of sailing it
seemed to March that in some familiar
aspects New York had never been so in-
teresting. He had not easily reconciled
himself to the place after his many years
of Boston; but he had got used to the
ugly grandeur, to the noise and the rush,
atid he had divined more and more the
careless good-nature and friendly indif-
ference of the vast, sprawling, ungainly
metropolis. There were happy moments
when he felt a poetry unintentional and
unconscious in it, and he thought there
was no point more favorable for the sense
of this than Stuyvesant Square, where
they had a flat. Their windows looked
down into its tree-tops, and across them
to the truncated towers of St. George’s,
and to the plain red-brick, wliite-trimmed
front of the Friends’ Meeting-House; and
at all hours of the day he liked going
into it. He came and went between his
dwelling and his office through the two
places that form the square, and after
dinner his wife and he had a habit of
finding seats by one of the fountains in
Livingston Place, among the fathers and
mothers of the hybrid East Side chil-
dren swarming there at play. The elders
read their English or Italian or German
or Yiddish journals, or gossiped, or mere-
ly sat still and stared away the day’s fa-
tigue; while the little ones raced in and
out among them, crying and laughing,
quarrelling and kissing. # Sometimes a
mother darted forward and caught her
child from the brink of the basin; an-
other taught hers to walk, holding it
tightly up behind by its short skirts; an-
other publicly bared her breast and
nursed her baby to sleep.
While they still dreamed, but never
thought, of going to Europe, the Marches
often said how European all this was; if
these women had brought their knitting or
sewing it would have been quite Europe-
an ; but as soon as they had decided to go,
it all began to seem poignantly American.
In like manner, before the conditions of
their exile changed, and they still pined
for the Old World, they contrived a very
agreeable illusion of it by dining now
and then at an Austrian restaurant in
Union Square; but later when they be-
gan to be homesick for the American
scenes they had not yet left, they had a
keener retrospective joy in the strictly
New York sunset they were bowed out
into.
The sunsets were uncommonly charac-
teristic that May in Union Square. They
were the color of the red stripes in the
American flag, and when they were seen
through the delirious architecture of the
Broadway side, or down the perspective
of the cross -streets, where the elevated
trains silhouetted themselves against
their pink, they imparted a feeling of
pervasive Americanism in which all im-
pression of alien savors and civilities
was lost. One evening a fire flamed
up in Hoboken, and burned for hours
against the west, in the lurid crimson
tones of a conflagration as memorably
and appealingly native as the colors of
the sunset.
The weather for nearly the whole month
was of a mood familiar enough in our
early summer, and it was this which gave
the sunsets* their vitreous pink. A thrill-
ing coolness followed a first blaze of heat,
and inHlie long respite the thoughts al-
most went back to winter flannels. But
at last a hot wave was telegraphed from
the West, and the -week before the Nor-
umbia sailed was an anguish of burning
days and breathless nights, which fused
all regrets and reluctances in the hope of
escape, and made the exiles of two conti-
nents long for the sea with no care for
either shore.
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VI.
Their steamer was to sail early; they
were up at dawn because they had scarcely
lain down, and March crept out into the
square for a last breath of its morning air
before breakfast. He was now eager to
be gone; lie had broken with habit, and
he wished to put all traces of the past
out of sight. But this was curiously like
all other early mornings in his conscious-
ness, and he could not alienate himself
from the wonted environment. He stood
talking on every day terms of idle specu-
lation with the familiar policeman, about
a stray parrot in the top of one of the
trees, where it screamed and clawed at
the dead branch to which it clung. Then
he went carelessly in-doors again as if
he were secure of reading the reporter’s
story of it in that next day’s paper which
he should not see.
The sense of an inseverable continuity
persisted through the breakfast, which
was like other breakfasts in the place
they would be leaving in summer shrouds
just as they always left it at the end
of June. The illusion was even height-
ened by the fact that their son was to
be in the apartment all summer, and it
would not be so much shut up as usual.
The heavy trunks had been sent to the
ship by express the afternoon before, and
they had only themselves and their state-
room baggage to transport to Hoboken;
they came down to a carriage sent from a
neighboring liv.ery-stable, and exchanged
good-mornings with a driver they knew
by name.
March had often fancied it a chief ad-
vantage of living in New York that you
could drive to the steamer and start for
Europe as if you were starting for Al-
bany; he was in the enjoyment of this
advantage now, but somehow it was not
the consolation he had expected. He
knew, of course, that if they had been
coming from Boston, for instance, to sail
in the Norumbia , they would probably
have gone on board the night before, and
sweltered through its heat among the
strange smells and noises of the dock and
wharf, instead of breakfasting at their
own table, aud smoothly bowling down
the asphalt on to the ferry-boat, and so
to the very foot of the gangway at the
ship’s side, all in the cool of the early
morning. But though he had now the
cool of the early morning on these con-
ditions, there was by no means enough
of it. The sun was already burning the
life out of the air, with the threat of an-
other day of the terrible heat that had
prevailed for a week past; and that last
breakfast at home had not been gay,
though it had been lively, in a fashion,
through Mrs. March’s efforts to convince
her son that she did not want him to
come and see them off. Of her daugh-
ter’s coming all the way from Chicago
there was no question, and she reasoned
that if he did# not come to say good-by
on board it would be the same as if they
were not going.
“Don’t you want to go?” March asked
with an obscure resentment.
“ I don’t want to seem to go,” she said
with the calm of those who have logic
on their side.
As she drove away with her husband
she was not so sure of her satisfaction in
the feint she had arranged, though when
she saw the ghastly partings of people on
board, she was glad she had not allowed
her son to come. She kept saying this to
herself, and when they climbed to the
shjp from the wharf, and found themselves
in the crowd that choked the saloons and
promenades and passages and stairways
and landings, she said it more than once
to her husband.
She heard weary elders pattering empty
politenesses of farewell with friends who
had come to see them off, as they stood
withdrawn in such refuges as the ship’s
architecture afforded, or submitted to be
pushed and twirled about by the surging
throng when they got in its way. She
pitied these in their affliction, which she
perceived that they could not lighten or
shorten, but she had no patience with the
young girls, who broke into shrieks of
nervous laughter at the coming of certain
young men, and kept laughing and beck-
oning till they made the young men see
them; and then stretched their hands to
them and stood screaming and shouting
to them across the intervening heads and
shoulders. Some girls, of those whom no
one had come to bid good-by, made them-
selves merry, or at least noisy, by rushing
off to the dining-room and looking at the
cards on the bouquets heaping the tables,
to find whether any one had sent them
flowers. Others whom young men had
brought bunches of violets hid their noses
in them, and dropped their fans and hand-
kerchiefs and card-cases, and thanked the
young men for picking them up. Others
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had got places in the music-room, and sat
there with open boxes of long-stemmed
roses in their laps, and talked up into the
faces of the men, with becoming lifts and
slants of their eyes and chins. In the midst
of the turmoil children struggled against
people’s feet and knees, and bewildered
mothers flew at the ship’s officers and
battered them with questions alien to their
respective functions as they amiably sti-
fled about in their thick uniforms.
Sailors slung over the ship’s side on
swinging seats were placidly smearing it
with paint at that last moment; the bul-
warks were thickly set with the heads
and arms of passengers who were making
signs to friends on shore, or calling mes-
sages to them that lost themselves in loud-
er noises midway. Some of the women
in the steerage were crying; they were
probably not going to Europe for pleasure
like the first-cabin passengers, or even for
their health; on the wharf below March
saw the face of one young girl twisted
with weeping, and he wished he had not
seen it. He turned from it, and looked
into the eyes of his son, who was laughing
at his shoulder. He said that he had to
come down with a good-by letter from his
sister, which he made an excuse for fol-
lowing them; but he had always meant
to see them off, he owned. The letter
had just come with a special delivery
stamp, and it warned them that she had
sent another good-by letter with some
flowers on board. Mrs. March scolded at
them both, but with tears in her eyes, and
in the renewed stress of parting which he
thought he had put from him, March went
on taking note, as with alien senses, of the
scene before him, while they all talked on
together, and repeated the nothings they
had said already.
A rank odor of beet-root sugar rose
from the far-branching sheds where some
freight steamers of the line lay, and
seemed to mingle chemically with the
noise which came up from the wharf
next to the Norumbia. The mass of
spectators deepeued and dimmed away
into the shadow of the roofs, and along
their front came files of carriages and
trucks and carts, and discharged the ar-
riving passengers and their baggage, and
were lost in the crowd, which they pene-
trated like slow currents, becoming clogged
and arrested from time to time, and then
beginning to move agaiu.
The passengers incessantly mounted by
the canvas-draped galleries leading, fore
and aft, into the ship. Bareheaded, blue-
jacketed, brass-buttoned stewards dodged
skilfully in and out among them with
their hand-bags, hold-alls, hat-boxes, and
state-room trunks, and ran before them
into the different depths and heights
where they hid these burdens, and then
ran back for more. Some of the passen-
gers followed them and made sure that
their things were put in the right places;
most of them remained wedged among
the earlier comers, or pushed aimlessly in
and out of the doors of the promenades.
The baggage for the hold continually
rose in huge blocks from the wharf, with
a loud clucking of the tackle, and sank
into the open maw of the ship, momently
gathering herself for her long race sea-
ward, with harsh hissings and rattlings
and gurglings. There w^as no apparent
reason why it should all or any of it end,
but there came a moment when there be-
gan to be warnings that were almost
threats of the end. The ship’s whistle
sounded, as if marking a certain interval ;
and Mrs. March humbly entreated, stern-
ly commanded, her son to go ashore, or
else be carried to Europe. They dis-
puted whether that was the last signal or
not; she was sure it was, and she appealed
to March, who was moved against his
reason. He affected to talk calmly with
his son, and gave him some last charges
about Every Other Week .
Some people now interrupted their
leave-taking; but the arriving passengers
only arrived more rapidly at the gang-
ways; the bulks of baggage swrung more
swiftly into the air. A bell rang, and
there rose women’s cries, “Oh, that is
the shore-bell!” and men’s protests, “ It
is only the first bell!” More and more
began to descend the gangways, fore and
aft, and soon outnumbered those who
were coming aboard.
March tried not to be nervous about
his son’s lingering;' he was ashamed of
his anxiety; but he said in a low voice,
“ Better be off, Tom.”
His mother now said she did not care
if Tom wrere really carried to Europe; and
at last he said, Well, he guessed he must
go ashore, as if there had been no ques-
tion of that before; and then she clung
to him and vrould not let him go; but
she acquired merit with herself at last by
pushing him into the gangway with her
own hands: he nodded and waved his
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203
hat from its foot, and mixed with the
crowd.
Presently there was hardly any one
coming aboard, and the sailors began to
undo the lashings of the gangways from
the ship’s side; files of men on the wharf
laid hold of their rails; the stewards
guarding their approach looked up for
the signal to come aboard; and in vivid
pantomime forbade some belated leave-
takers to ascend. These stood aside, ex-
changing bows and grins with the friends
whom they could not reach; they all
tried to make one another hear some last
words. The moment came when the sa-
loon gangway was detached; then it was
pulled ashore, and the section of the bul-
warks opening to it was locked, not to be
unlocked on this side of the world. An
uudefinable impulse communicated itself
to the steamer: while it still seemed mo-
tionless it moved. The thick spread of
faces on the wharf, which had looked at
times like some sort of strange flowers in
a level field, broke into a universal tremor,
and the air above them was filled with hats
and handkerchiefs, as if with the flight
of birds rising from the field.
The Marches tried to make put their
son's face; they believed that they did;
but they decided that they had not seen
him, and his mother said that she was
glad; it would only have made it harder
to bear, though she was glad he had come
over to say good-by: it had seemed so
unnatural that he should not, when every-
body else was saying good-by.
On the wharf color was now taking
the place of form; the scene ceased to
have the effect of an instantaneous pho-
tograph; it was like an impressionistic
study.
As the ship swung free of the shed and
got into the stream, the shore lost reality.
Up to a certain moment, all was still
New York, all was even Hoboken; then
amidst the grotesque and monstrous shows
of the architecture on either shore March
felt himself at sea and on the way to
Europe.
The fact was accented by the trouble
people were already making with the
deck-steward about their steamer chairs,
which they all wanted put in the best
places, and March, with a certain heart-
ache, was involuntarily verifying the in-
stant in Which he ceased to be of his na-
tive shores while still in full sight of
them, when he suddenly reverted to them,
vol. xcviii. — No. 6S4.-ae
and as it were landed on them again in
an incident that held him breathless. A
man, bareheaded, and with his arms
flung wildly abroad, came flying down
the promenade from the steerage. “ Cap-
itan! Capitani There is a woman!” he
shouted in nondescript English. “She
must go hout ! She must go hout /” Some
vital fact imparted itself to the ship's
command and seemed to penetrate to the
ship’s heart; she stopped, as if with a sort
of majestic relenting. A tug panted to
her side, and lifted a ladder to it; the
bareheaded man, and a woman gripping
a baby in her arms, sprawled safely down
its rungs to the deck of the tug, and the
steamer moved seaward again.
“ What is it? Oh, what is it?” his wife
demanded of March’s share of their com-
mon ignorance. A young fellow passing
stopped as if arrested by the tragic note
in her voice, and explained that the
woman had left three little children lock-
ed up in her tenement while she came to
bid some friends on board good-by.
He passed on, and Mrs. March said,
“What a charming face he had!” even
before she began to wreak upon that
wretched mother the overwrought sym-
pathy which makes good women desire
the punishment of people who have es-
caped danger. She would not hear any
excuse for her. “Her children oughtn’t
to have been out of her mind for an in-
stant.”
“Don’t you want to send back a line
to ours by the pilot?” he asked.
She started from him. “ Oh, was I
really beginning to forget them?”
In the saloon where people were scat-
tered about writing pilot’s letters she
made him join her in an impassioned
epistle of farewell, which once more left
none of the nothings unsaid that they
had many times reiterated. She would
not let him put the stamp on, for fear it
would not stick, and she had an agoniz-
ing moment of doubt whether it ought
not to be a German stamp; she was not
pacified till the steward in charge of the
mail decided.
“I shouldn’t have forgiven myself,”
March said, “ if we hadn’t let Tom know
that twenty minutes after he left us we
were still alive and well.”
“It’s to Bella, too,” she reasoned.
He found her making their state-room
look homelike with their familiar things
when he came with their daughter’s
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steamer letter and the flowers and fruit she
had sent. She said, Very well, they would
all keep, and went on with her unpack-
ing. He asked her if she did not think
these home things made it rather ghastly,
and she said if he kept on in that way
she should certainly go back on the pilot-
boat. He perceived that her nerves were
spent. He had resisted the impulse to
an ill-timed joke about the life-preservers
under their berths when the sound of the
breakfast-horn, wavering first in the dis-
tance, found its way nearer and clearer
down their corridor.
VII.
In one of the many visits to the steam-
ship office which his wife's anxieties
obliged him to make, March had discussed
the question of seats in the dining-saloon.
At first he had his ambition for the cap-
tain’s table, but they convinced him more
easily than he afterwards convinced Mi's.
March that the captain’s table had become
a superstition of the past, and conferred
no special honor. It proved in the event
that the captain of the Noi'umbia had the
good feeling to dine in a lower saloon
among the passengers who paid least for
their rooms. But while the Marches
were still in their ignorance of this, they
decided to get what adventure they could
out of letting the head steward put them
where he liked, and they came in to break-
fast with a careless curiosity to see what
he had done for them.
There seemed scarcely a vacant place
in the huge saloon ; through the oval
openings in the centre they looked down
into the lower saloon and up into the
music- room, as thickly thronged with
break fasters. The tables were brightened
with the bouquets and the floral designs
of ships, anchors, harps, and doves sent
to the lady passengers, and at one time
the Marches thought they were going to
be put before a steam-yacht realized to
the last detail in blue and white violets.
The ports of the saloon were open, and
showed the level sea; the ship rode with
no motion except the tremor from her
screws. The sound of talking and laugh-
ing rose with the clatter of knives and
forks and the clash of crockery; the
homely smell of the coffee and steak and
fish mixed with the spice of the roses and
carnations; the stewards ran hither and
thither, and a young foolish joy of travel
welled up in the elderly hearts of the
pair. When the head steward turned out
the swivel-chairs where they were to sit
they both made an inclination toward the
people already at table, as if it had been
a company at some far forgotten table
d’hote in the later sixties. The head
steward seemed to Qnderstand as well as
speak English, but the table-stewards had
only an effect of English, which they eked
out with “Bleace!” for all occasions of
inquiry, apology, and reassurance, as the
equivalent of their native “ Bitte T Oth-
erwise there was no reason to suppose
that they did not speak German, which
was the language of a good half of the
passengers. The stewards looked English,
however, in conformity to what seems the
ideal of every kind of foreign seafaring
people, and that went a good way tow-
ard making them intelligible.
.March, to whom his wife mainly left
their obeisance, made it so tentative that if
it should meet no response he could feel
that it had been nothing more than a for
ward stoop, such as was natural in sitting
down. He need not really have taken this
precaution; those whose eyes he caught
more or less nodded in return. A nice-
looking boy of thirteen or fourteen, who
had the place on the left of the lady in
the sofa seat under the port, bowed with
almost magisterial gravity, and made the
lady on the sofa smile, as if she were
his mother and understood him. March
decided that she had been some time
a widow ; and he easily divined that the
young couple on her right had been so
little time husband and wife that they
would rather not have it known. Next
them was a young lady whom he did not
at first think so good-looking as she proved
later to be, though she had at once a pret-
ty nose, with a slight upward slant at the
point, long eyes under fallen lashes, a
straight forehead, not too high, and a
mouth which perhaps the exigencies of
breakfasting did not allow its character-
istic expression. She had what Mrs.
March thought interesting hair, of a dull
black, roughly rolled away from her fore-
head and temples in a fashion not partic-
ularly becoming to her, and she had the
air of not looking so well as she might
if she had chosen. The elderly man on
her right, it was easy to see, was her fa-
ther; they had a family likeness, though
his fair hair, now ashen with age, was so
different from hers. He wore his beard
cut in the fashion of the Second Empire,
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205
with a Louis Napoleonic mustache, im-
perial, and chin tuft; his neat head was
cropt close, and there was something Gal-
lic in its effect and something remotely
military: he had blue eyes, really less se-
vere than he meant, though he frowned
a good deal, and managed them with
glances of a staccato quickness, as if chal-
lenging a potential disagreement with his
opinions.
The gentleman on his right, who sat at
the head of the table, was of the humor-
ous, subironical American expression, and
a smile at the corner of his kindly moutb,
under an iron-gray full beard cut short,
at once questioned and tolerated the new-
comers as he glanced at them. He re-
sponded to March's bow almost as decid-
edly as the nice boy, whose mother he con-
fronted at the other end of the table, and
with his comely bulk formed an interest-
ing coutrast to her vivid slightness. She
was brilliantly dark, behind the gleam of
the gold-rimmed glasses perched on her
pretty nose.
If the talk had been general before the
Marches came, it did not at once renew
itself in that form. Nothing was said
while they were having their first strug-
gle with the table-stewards, who repeated
the order as if to show how fully they
had misunderstood it. The gentleman at
the head of the table intervened at last,
and then. “I'm obliged to ydu,” March
said, “for your German. I left mine
in a phrase - book in my other coat
pocket.”
“Oh, I wasn’t speaking German,” said
the other. “ It was merely their kind of
English.”
The company were in the excitement
of a novel situation which disposes peo-
ple to acquaintance, and this exchange of
small pleasantries made every one laugh,
except the father and daughter; but they
had the effect of being tacitly amused.
The mother of the nice boy said to Mrs.
March, “You may not get what you or-
dered, but it will be good.”
“ Even if you don’t know what it is!”
said the young bride, and then blushed,
as if she had been too bold.
Mrs. March liked the blush and the
young bride for it, and she asked, “Have
you ever been on one of these German
boats before? They seem very comfort-
able.”
“Oh, dear, no! we’ve never been on
any boat before.” She made a little pet-
ted mouth of deprecation, and added sim-
ple-heartedly, “My husband was going
out on business, and bethought he might
as well take me along.”
The husband seemed to feel himself
brought in by this, and said he did not
see why they should not make it a plea-
sure-trip, too. They put themselves in a
position to be patronized by their defer-
ence, and in the pauses of his talk with
the gentleman at the head of the table,
March heard his wife abusing their in-
experience to be unsparingly instructive
about European travel. He wondered
whether she would be afraid to own that
it was nearly thirty years since she had
crossed the ocean ; though that might
have seemed recent to people who had
never crossed at all.
They listened with respect as she boast-
ed in what an anguish of wisdom she had
decided between the Colmannia and the
Norumbia. The wife said she did not
know there was such a difference in
steamers, but when Mrs. March perfer-
vidly assured her that there was all the
difference in the world, she submitted
and Said she supposed she ought to be
thankful that they had hit upon the
right one. They had ‘telegraphed for
berths and taken what was given them;
their room seemed to be very nice.
“Oh,” said Mrs. March, and her hus-
band knew that she was saying it to recon-
cile them to the inevitable, “ all the rooms
on the Norumbia are nice. The only dif-
ference is that if they are on the south
side you have the sun.”
“ I’m not sure which is the south side,”
said the bride. “We seem to have been
going west ever since we started, and I
feel as if we should reach home in the
morning if we had a good night. Is the
ocean always so smooth as this?”
“ Oh, dear , no!” said Mrs. March. “It's
never so smooth as this,” and she began
to be outrageously authoritative about
the ocean weather. She ended by de-
claring that the June passages were al-
ways good, and that if the ship kept a
southerly course they would have no fogs
and no icebergs. She looked round, and
caught her husband's eye. “ What is it?
Have I been bragging? Well, you under-
stand,” she added to the bride, “ I’ve only
been over once, a great while ago, and I
don’t really know anything about it,”
and they laughed together. “ But I
talked so much with people after we de-
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HARPERS NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
cided to go, that I feel as if I had been a
hundred times.”
4 4 1 know,” said the other lady, with
caressing intelligence. 44 That is just the
way with—” She stopped, and looked at
the young man whom the head stew-
ard was bringing up to take the vacant
place next to March. He came forward
stuffing his cap into the pocket of his
blue serge sack, and smiled down on the
company with such happiness in his gay
eyes that March wondered what chance
at this late day could have given any
human creature his content so absolute,
and what calamity could be lurking
round the corner to take it out of him.
The new-comer looked at March as if he
knew him, and March saw at a second
glance that he was the young fellow who
had told him about the mother put off
after the start. He asked him whether
there was any change in the weather yet
outside, and he answered eagerly, as if
the chance to put his happiness into the
mere sound of words were a favor done
him, that their ship had just spoken one
of the big Hanseatic mail-boats, and she
had signalled back that she had met ice;
so that they would probably keep a south-
erly course, and not have it cooler till
they were off the Banks.
The mother of the boy said, 44 I thought
we must be off the Banks when I came
out of my room, but it was only the elec-
tric fan at the foot of the stairs.”
44 That was what I thought,” said Mrs.
March. 44 1 almost sent my husband back
for my shawl l” Both the ladies laughed
and acquired merit with each other by
their common experience.
44 Those fans do make a great difference
in the climate,” said the gentleman at the
head of the table. 44 They ought to have
them going there by that pillar, or else
close the ports. They only let in heat.”
They easily conformed to the American
convention of jocosity in their talk ; it
perhaps no more represents the indi-
vidual mood than the convention of dul-
n ess among other people; but it seemed
to make the young man feel at home.
“Why, do you think it’s uncomfort-
ably warm?” lie asked, from what March
perceived to be a meteorology of his own.
He laughed and added, 44 It is pretty sum-
rnerliko,” as if he had not thought of it
before. He talked of the big mail-boat,
and said he would like to cross on such a
boat as that, and then he glanced at the
possible advantage of having ycur own
steam-yacht like the one which he said
they had just passed, so near that you
could see what a good time the people
were having on board. He began to
speak to the Marches; his talk spread to
the young couple across the table; it vis-
ited the mother on the sofa in a remark
which she might ignore without apparent
rejection, and without really avoiding’ the
boy, it glanced off toward the father and
daughter, from whom it fell, to rest with
the gentleman at the head of the table.
It was not that the father and daughter
had slighted his overture, if it was so
much as that, but that they were tacit-
ly preoccupied, or were of some philoso-
phy concerning their fellow-breakfasters
which did not suffer them, for the pres-
ent at least, to share in the common
friendliness. This is an attitude some-
times produced in people by a sense of
just, or even unjust, superiority; some-
times by serious trouble; sometimes by
transient annoyance. The cause was not
so deep-seated but Mrs. March, before
she rose from her place, believed that she
had detected a slant of the young lady’s
eyes, from under her lashes, toward the
young man ; and she leaped to a conclu-
sion concerning them in a matter where
all logical steps are impertinent. She
did not announce her arrival at this
point till the young man had overtaken
her before she got out of the saloon,
and presented the handkerchief she had
dropped under the table.
He went away with her thanks, and
then she said to her husband, 44 Well, he’s
perfectly charming, and I don’t wonder
she’s taken with him ; that kind of cold
girl would be, though I’m not sure that
she is cold. She’s interesting, and you
could see that he thought so, the more
he looked at her; I could see him look-
ing at her from the very first instant; he
couldn’t keep his eyes off her; she piqued
his curiosity, and made him wonder about
her.”
“ Now, look here, Isabel ! This won’t do.
I can stand a good deal, but I sat between
you and that young fellow, and you
couldn’t tell whether he was looking at
that girl or not.”
4‘I could! I could tell by the expres-
sion of her face.”
44 Oh, well ! If it’s gone as far as that
with you, I give it up. When are you
going to have them married?”
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S‘V,>^
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HIlW
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THEIR SILVER WEDDING JOURNEY.
209
“Nonsense! I want you to find out
who all those people are. How are you
going to do it?”
4i Perhaps the passenger list will say,”
he suggested.
VIII.
The list did not say of itself, but with
the help of the head steward’s diagram
it said that the gentleman at the head of
the table was Mr. R. M. Kenby ; the father
and the daughter were Mr. E. B. Triscoe
and Miss Triscoe; the bridal pair were
Mr. and Mrs. Leffers; the mother and her
son were Mrs. Adding and Mr. Roswell
Adding; the young man who came in
last was Mr. L. J. Burnamy. March car-
ried the list, with these names carefully
checked and rearranged on a neat plan of
the table, to his wife in her steamer chair,
and left her to make out the history and
the character of the people from it. In
this sort of conjecture long experience
had taught him his futility, and he
strolled up and down and looked at the
life about him with no wish to penetrate
it deeply.
Long Island was now a low yellow line
on the left. Some fishing-boats flickered
off the shore; they met a few sail, and
left more behind; but already, and so
near one of the greatest ports of the
world, the spacious solitude of the ocean
was beginning. There was no swell; the
sea lay quite flat, with a fine mesh of
wrinkles on its surface, and the sun
flamed down upon it from a sky with-
out a cloud. With the light fair wind,
there was no resistance in the sultry air;
the thin, dun smoke from the smoke-stack
fell about the decks like a stifling veil.
The promenades were as uncomfortably
crowded as the sidewalk of Fourteenth
Street on a summer’s day, and showed
much the social average of a New York
shopping thoroughfare. Distinction is
something that does not always reveal it-
self at first sight on land ; and at sea it is
still more retrusive. A certain democracy
of looks and clothes was the most notable
thing to March in the apathetic groups and
detached figures. His criticism disabled
the saloon passengers of even so much
personal appeal as he imagined in some
of the second-cabin passengers whom he
saw across their barrier ; they had at
least the pathos of their exclusion, and he
could wonder if they felt it or envied
him. At Hoboken he had seen certain
people coming on board who looked like
swells; but they had now either retired
from the crowd, or they had already
conformed to the prevailing type. It
was very well as a type ; he was of it
himself; but he wished that beauty as
well as distinction had not been so lost
in it.
In fact, he no longer saw so much
beauty anywhere as he once did. It
might be that he saw life more truly than
when he was young, and that his glasses
were better than his eyes had been ; but
there were analogies that forbade his
thinking so, and he sometimes had his
misgivings that the trouble was with his
glasses. He made what he could of a
pretty girl who had the air of not mean-
ing to lose a moment from flirtation, and
was luring her fellow - passengers from
under her sailor hat. She had already
attached one of them ; and she was look-
ing out for more. She kept moving her-
self from the waist up, as if she worked
there on a pivot, showing now this side
and now that side of her face, and visit-
ing the admirer she had secured with a
smile as from the lamp of a revolving
light as she turned.
While he was dwelling upon this folly,
with a sense of impersonal pleasure in it
as complete through his years as if he
were already a disembodied spirit, the
pulse of the engines suddenly ceased, and
he joined the general rush to the rail,
with a fantastic expectation of seeing
another distracted mother put off; but
it was only the pilot leaving the ship.
He was climbing down the ladder which
hung over the boat, rising and sinking
on the sea below, while the two men
in her held her from the ship’s side with
their oars; in the offing lay the white
steam -yacht which now replaces the
picturesque pilot -sloop of other times.
The Norumbia's screws turned again
under half a head of steam; the pilot
dropped from the last rung of the ladder
into the boat, and caught the bundle of
letters tossed after him. Then his men
let go the line that was towing their
craft, and the incident of the steamer’s
departure was finally closed. It had been
dramatically heightened perhaps by her
final impatience to be off at some added
risks to the pilot and his men, but not
painfully so, and March smiled to think
how meq whose lives are full of danger-
ous chauces seem always to take as many
of them as they can.
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
He heard a girl’s fresh voice saying at
his shoulder, 44 Well, now we are otf ; and
I suppose you're glad, papa!”
44 I’m glad we’re not taking the pilot
on, at least,” answered the elderly man
whom the girl had spoken to ; and March
turned to see the father and daughter
whose reticence at the breakfast table had
interested him. He wondered that he
had left her out of the account in esti-
mating the beauty of the ship’s passen-
gers: he saw now that she was not only
extremely pretty, but as she moved away
she was very graceful ; she even had dis-
tinction. He had fancied a tone of tol-
erance and at the same time of reproach
in her voice, when she spoke, and a tone
of defiance and not very successful denial
in her father’s; and he went back with
these impressions to his wife, whom he
thought he ought to tell why the ship
had stopped.
She had not noticed the ship’s stop-
ping, in her study of the passenger list,
and she did not care for the pilot’s leav-
ing; but she seemed to think his having
overheard those words of the father and
daughter an event of prime importance.
With a woman’s willingness to adapt
the means to the end she suggested that
he should follow them up and try to
overhear something more; she only par-
tially realized the infamy of her sug-
gestion when he laughed in scornful re-
fusal.
44 Of course I don’t want you to eaves-
drop, but I do want you to find out about
them. And about Mr. Burnamy, too. I
can wait, about the others, or manage for
myself, but these are driving me to dis-
traction. Now, will you?”
He said he would do anything he could
with honor, and at one of the earliest
turns lie made on the other side of the
ship he was smilingly halted by Mr.
Burnamy, who asked to be excused, and
then asked if he were not Mr. March of
Every Other Week; he had seen the
name on the passenger list, and felt sure
it must be the editor’s. He seemed so
trustfully to expect March to remember
his own .name as that of a writer from
whom he had accepted a short poem, yet
unprinted, that the editor feigned to do
so until he really did dimly recall it. He
even recalled the short poem, and some
civil words he said about it caused Bur-
namy to overrun in confidences that at
once touched and amused him.
[to bk continued.]
THE WEAKNESS OF THE EXECUTIVE POWER IN
DEMOCRACY.
BY HENRY LOOMIS NELSON.
IN his Civil Government in the United
States , Mr. John Fiske recalls the in-
cident in The Cloister and the Hearth of
the capture of the tall knight who had
valiantly led the besieged citizens of the
revolted town, and who turned out to be
not a knight at all, but a simple hosier.
In reply to the question put by one of his
captors as to the reason for the town’s out-
break, the stammering hosier replied,
Tuta-tuta-tuta-tuta-too much taxes”;
and Mr. Fiske truly says that 44 those
three little words furnish us with a clew
wherewith to understand and explain a
great deal of history”; and he adds, 44 the
questions as to how much the taxes shall
be, and who is to decide how much they
shall be [the italics are mine], aj-e always
and in every stage of society questions of
most fundamental importance.”
Taxes mean government, regulation,
law, and administration. If government
costs too much, there is likely to be a
revolt against the power which carries on
the government, or even against the form
of government which the state has adopt-
ed. It would be exaggerating, perhaps,
to say that the people who comprise any
particular state at any given moment
of time are all discontented, but it is
probably true that ouly a small frac-
tion of a population pay taxes without
questioning the wisdom, and sometimes
the integrity, of the power that levies
them, and that expends the revenues de-
rived from them. In the taxes which he
pays for the support of government the
individual citizen feels directly, and often
onerously, the power which governs, and
which perhaps he has helped to establish.
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So that since men began to rebel and to
overturn forms of government, they have
given as the reason for their action the
unjust, unequal, or tyrannical exercise of
the taxing power. Generally a revolt
against government means, however, that
the people are dissatisfied in every respect
with the dominant power in the state, and
the hosier and his fellow-rebels were un-
doubtedly really enraged on account of
the general conduct of the power which
levied the taxes upon them. The hosier's
complaint of “too much taxes7’ meant
not only that the citizens thought they
were paying too much for the support of
the governing noble, but that they did
not like the manner in which the noble
and his court employed their money.
In other words, they wanted another
kind of government.
In one form or another, for more than
a century, there has been in every nation
of the Western World a pretty constant
movement against the existing power.
There has been agitation in the better-
instructed and more highly civilized coun-
tries of Europe since early in the latter
half of the eighteenth century, while in
England the revolt began to be serious in
the seventeenth century, when Puritanism
broke the King’s rule over the individual’s
conscience. When our own Revolution
gathered headway, the rebellion of the
people was naturally a continuation of
the revolt against the power of the single
will, which had been going on in the
church and state for centuries— in other
words, against the executive power — be-
cause, even in England, this was the
power which exercised practically all the
functions of government, accomplishing
by bribery what, because of Magna Charta
and the work of Earl Simon de Mont-
fort, it could not accomplish directly. It
was the tyranny of kings from which
peoples suffered and against which they
rebelled ; and at the time when the Amer-
ican colonies rose against England, kings
— the fountains of power, the executive
heads of the nations over which they
ruled — represented all that seemed to be
hateful and oppressive in government, not
only to the colonies, but to many English-
men who remained at home, and, at the
end of the century, to nearly all French-
men. In the formation of their govern-
ments, in the latter part of the eighteenth
century, and in the evolution of the Brit-
ish government to the passage of the Re-
form bill of 1832, the efforts of the framers
of constitutions and the work of political
reformers were directed against the execu-
tive power, for the purpose of limiting it
and restraining it. In England, it is true,
the primacy of the legislative power had
been partially established, but the King,
by subterfuge and corruption, had held
on to what he conceived to be his own.
It was this power of the executive, or
rather this branch of the general power
of government, which levied unjust tax-
ation, and which expended the public
revenues for the oppression of the people.
It was this power which administered the
laws, which represented the nation in its
relations with foreign powers, which pos-
sessed the war power and held control of
the army and navy. It was the power
which extracted money from the people
for its own pleasure and glory, for the
splendor of its pageantry, for the increase
of its own importance and influence
among the nations; and to this end it
maintained standing armies, that it might
hold its own against the foreign foe, and
that it might also be ready to suppress
domestic insurrection, and to compel obe-
dience from the refractory. It was, in
fact, the government as it most directly
touched the individual. When, therefore,
the people finally reached the conclusion
that government existed for their own
good and not for the glory of kings, they
inevitably sought to curtail the power of
the executive, and to restore to their own
hands, or to the hands of their repre-
sentatives, the complete direction of af-
fairs.
The revolt against executive power
was carried to an extreme in the Con-
tinental Congress and in the Confedera-
tion. Not only was there no executive
provided for in our earliest national gov-
ernment, but during the Revolution there
was a strong party inimical to Washing-
ton, headed by the Lees of Virginia and
the Adamses of Massachusetts, who in-
sisted that Congress should perform all
the functions of administration as well as
those of legislation. They desired that
Congress should command the armies in
the field through a commander and other
general officers to be elected annually by
it. Such was the expressed “hope” of
John Adams. They insisted also that
the finances and diplomacy of the strug-
gling new country should be directly
managed by the many-headed and dis-
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cordant company of politicians who
were then moving the capital of the new
state from city to city and from col-
ony to colony, in order to prevent its
capture by the British forces. The re-
sult of this mania for Congressional gov-
ernment is familiar knowledge. Wash-
ington was hampered in the field by
plots against him in Congress, and by
the incapacity of that body to provide
the means necessary for the conduct of
the war. The finances of the colonies
were shamefully mismanaged, and the di-
plomacy of Congress was well described
as “militia diplomacy” by John Ad-
ams, who nevertheless believed in its effi-
cacy, and generally in the policy of bad
manners in dealing with the 11 tyrannies”
of Europe. After the war was over, it
was found that the revolt against execu-
tive power had been carried too far, and
that the Articles of Confederation had es-
tablished a government which was abso-
lutely impotent, partly on account of
the elision or weakening of the executive
power. It was to improve the prevailing
unfortunate condition of things that
Hamilton and his coadjutors framed the
new Constitution. How far the framers
succeeded in accomplishing their design
we shall inquire further on, but we find
Hamilton writing in No. lxix. of the
Federalist as follows:
. There is an idea, which is not without its
advocates, that a vigorous executive is incon-
sistent with the genius of republican govern-
ment. The enlightened well-wishers to this
species of government must at least hope that
the supposition is destitute of foundation, since
they can never admit its truth without at the
same time admitting the condemnation of their
own principles. Energy in the executive is a
leading characteristic in the definition of good
government.
And again :
A feeble executive implies a feeble execu-
tion of the government. A feeble execution
is but another phrase for a bad execution ; and
a government ill-executed, whatever it may
be in theory, must be iu practice a bad govern-
ment.
Although the framers of the Constitu-
tion, fairly representing the desire of the
country for a better government, asserted
that an executive power and a firm ex-
ecutive officer were essential, they nev-
ertheless made the legislative power the
dominant influence in the new gov-
ernment; and by providing that treaties
should be ratified and the President’s
nominations to office should be confirm-
ed by the Senate, they failed to give to
the executive power its promised and pro-
fessed independence. They left it to come
gradually under the influence, and in a
measure under the control, of the legisla-
tive branch. The eighteenth-century fear
of the despotic executive continued to be
strong upon the framers of our Constitu-
tion, notwithstanding the bitter experi-
ence of the country with the fatal weak-
ness of the Confederacy, and notwith-
standing their determination to establish
a sufficient executive. The attempt to rule
by a committee of Congress — in other
words, the attempt to rule without the
single directing mind which is essential
to efficient administration — had failed,
but still the dread of the “tyrant” was
so great that the new President was put
into leading-strings, which were held by
Congress. He could not make treaties or
appointments without the consent of the
Senate. He could not declare war. He
could not make the rules necessary for
the government of the land and naval
forces, of which he was the titular com-
mander-in-chief, nor of the militia after
he had called it into the service of the
United States. Without the consent of
the legislative branch of the government
he could not establish a single post office.
Democratic as Great Britain is, sufficient-
ly controlled as is its executive, the pow-
er to make treaties, to govern the army
and navy and to control the promotion
of their officers, and the power to declare
war, are left by the Commons to the gov-
ernment. It may be said that this is so
because the real government of Great
Britain owes its existence and its con-
tinuance to the legislature; but I am not
now inquiring why the British executive
is more trusted than our own — I am sim-
ply stating the fact. The American ex-
ecutive lacks initiative in legislation, al-
though the veto power, because of this
lack, has no doubt been more freely exer-
cised than it otherwise would have been.
It is interesting to note the few complete
powers which were granted to the Presi-
dent by the Constitution. He may “ re-
quire the opinion, in writing, of the prin-
cipal officers in each of the executive
departments upon any subject relating to
the duties of their respective offices; and
he shall have power to grant reprieves
and pardons for offences agaiust the
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213
United States, except in cases of impeach-
ment.” He can “fill up all vacancies
that may happen during the recess of the
Senate, by granting commissions which
shall expire at the end of the next ses-
sion.” “ He may, on extraordinary occa-
sions, convene both Houses or either of
them, and in case of disagreement be-
tween them with respect to the time of
adjournment, he may adjourn them to
such time as he shall think proper; he
shall receive ambassadors and other pub-
lic ministers;” and “he shall commission
all the officers of the United States.”
These, however, are not the important
powers of government that are essen-
tially and necessarily executive. All the
vital great executive powers are under
the control and direction of the legisla-
tive branch of our government. It is the
duty of the President, as a matter of
course, to “take care that the laws be
faithfully executed.” The laws are those
endcted b\r Congress, but Congress does
not rest content with enacting laws pre-
scribing the object that shall be attained
or the course of conduct that shall be
pursued. As we shall see, it prescribes
also the manner in which the law shall
be carried out, limiting the discretion of
the President and that of his subordinates,
greatly to the detriment of the interests
of those, including the government itself,
who are affected by administration. Of-
ten this attempt to administer by general
and undeviating rules works gross injus-
tice, for it is one of the necessary condi-
tions of sound and just as well as of
strong administration that the executive
or administrative officer shall exercise a
wise discretion, and shall possess at least
that measure of liberty which will enable
him to recognize and meet new condi-
tions and exceptional circumstances. A
statute often binds the executive to car-
ry out a law in a certain defined way,
no matter how greatly conditions may
change or how absurd the way prescribed
may become. An illustration of this kind
of Congressional interference in admin-
istration is to be found in a recent propo-
sition in the Senate to limit the number
of daily mail deliveries in all cities of
the country, so that, no matter how im-
portant an additional delivery might be-
come in a certain city, any attempt on
the part of the administrative officer to
meet the emergency would render him
liable to impeachment.
Vol. XCVIU.— No. 584.-27
The status of the executive power in this
country is becoming a subject of the first
importance, because we are assuming —
indeed, have assumed — a position in in-
ternational affairs which renders a re-
adjustment of the relations between the
executive and legislative branches of the
government absolutely essential. For
this reason some of the lessons of our
war with Spain are of the first impor-
tance, for our failures in this war in di-
plomacy and in military management
are not necessarily characteristic of the
present administration and of the exist-
ing Congress; they are almost insepara-
ble from the system of government which
has grown up in the United States by
reason of the enormous preponderance
which the Constitution gives to the legis-
lative branch of the government.
When the relations between the United
States and Spain became tense in the
autumn of 1897, and especially early in
1898, President McKinley felt his respon-
sibilities most keenly, and did all in his
power to prevent war. He refused to
recognize either the belligerency or the
independence of the Cubans, and at the
same time he realized that the rule of
Spain must cease in Cuba if war was to
be avoided. To this end he was conduct-
ing promising negotiations, and we have
the testimony of General Woodford, our
then minister to Spain, that the declared
object of the war would have soon been
attained peaceably by diplomacy. But
Congress would not permit the President
to reap the fruits of diplomatic skill. The
many -headed legislature, maddened by
the shrieks of newspapers whose control-
ling desire was to feed excitement in
order to increase their sales, forced the
country into war. Congress entered into
the negotiations, which the President was
conducting under the power granted to
him by the Constitution, with frenzied
yells and shaking of fists, and such hot
insults as are the natural offspring of a
self- incensed mob. There was never a
more startling illustration of a mistaken
theory. It was then seen that the power
to make war rests with a body liable to be
lashed beyond the pale of reason into in-
sensate fury by the shrieking of the press,
while the executive, to whom this power
is denied, was exhibiting that caution and
self -containment, above all, that regard
for the public welfare and for peace and
civilization, which the framers of the
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fundamental law fondly imagined would
abide principally with the representatives
of the people.
After war was determined on, there were
revealed other serious weaknesses in our
system. The President is only nominal-
ly commander-in-chief. So far as the
army is concerned, Congress commands.
It does not often permit even the profes-
sional soldiers who are educated at the
Military Academy to rise to the rank of
general officers. When the war broke
out, General Merritt was the only general
officer of the army who had been edu-
cated at West Point; and while there were
general officers in the army, notably Gen-
eral Miles, who had earned their high
commissions by soldierly achievements,
it is the fact, known of all who are ac-
quainted with army affairs, that in time
of peace, at least, friends in Congress are
more potent in securing a brigadier or
major generalship than former services in
the field or present services at posts. As
soon as war approached, politicians in-
creased their active interference with the
army. An attempt in the House of Rep-
resentatives to make the regular force
equal to the emergency wras defeated by
the influence of politicians in the militia,
or dependent on the militia for votes.
The navy also suffered by neglect of its
personnel bill. As soon as the volunteer
army was authorized, politicians sought
commissions for themselves, their friends,
and the sons and nephews of themselves
and their friends. In the States the col-
onels who had “ pulls ” obtained what
they called “ recognition ” for their com-
mands. Unpreparedness and incompe-
tency marked every step at the beginning
of the war. Educated soldiers, old and
young, were overlooked, and the rank and
file were turned over to the care of ig-
norance and indifference. Congressmen
not only filled the new places with their
friends, but they were diligent in seek-
ing opportunities for money-making for
other friends. Sad as the tale is, it is not
new or strange. Congress has always
commanded the army. It has not so com-
pletely commanded the navy, because
that service must be under the direction
of professional men. It is true that the
army should also be under the control of
instructed soldiers, but this is not so clear
to the mind of the politicians, who seem
to think that they are capable of conduct-
ing any military enterprise that does not
demand a knowledge of navigation. Af-
ter the protocol was signed, many of the
militia and volunteer regiments began to
clamor to be mustered out. Then the
politicians intervened again, and obtained
liberty to go home for the men for whom
they had first obtained stations at the front.
Some volunteer regiments were mustered
out because their friends at home, who
have votes, did not want their “ boys ” to
go to the West Indies or the Philippines, or
even to Hawaii. One regiment, at least
so it is reported, refused to go, and it also
was mustered out. The demoralizing ef-
fect of politics was witnessed in the field,
as well as at the beginning and the end
of the strife. Popular honors went to
undisciplined volunteers, and the regu-
lars who had earned the laurels of the
campaign were well nigh forgotten.
The country does not appreciate the
military evils of the Santiago campaign,
because the war did not last long enough
to teach its lesson thoroughly. Such
evils as there were, however, were due to
the influence of politicians over the army,
and to the actual command of the mili-
tary forces by the legislative branch of
the government. Even in the throes of
war Congress held on to its evil suprem-
acy. In authorizing a volunteer army,
it provided that the President shall never
call it out until Congress has been assem-
bled and has given him authority. Will
not this seem a curiously absurd provision
after we have become a “world power,”
with our foreign relations at the mercy of
the politicians, whom the President will
appoint as colonial officials on the recom-
mendation of the very legislators w ho will
act on his nominations, his treaties, his do-
mestic policy, and who will grant him his
supplies? The truth on this point is
probably that Congress will never believe
in the need of preparing for sudden
emergencies until its perverse blindness
brings upon the country some terrible dis-
aster; and perhaps not even then, until
it be aroused to the fact that it can never
become an efficient administrative body.
Congress has always compelled the
President to exercise his office of com-
mander-in-chief under its direction. It
has regulated the system of promotions
so that no officer in the army can be re-
warded at all for meritorious services ex-
cept by a temporary honor, while no offi-
cer of the navy can be rewarded except
at the expense of his fellow-officers. It
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governs the most minute details of mili-
tary organization. For years, for exam-
ple, it lias refused to authorize the three-
battalion organization for the infantry
which modern weapons make absolutely
necessary, and concerning which there is
no difference of opinion among military
men. It determines the character of the
ships that shall be built for the navy, the
kind of weapons that shall be mounted
in our forts, and, in general, the instruc-
tion of the troops in their trade. In a
word, politicians and not soldiers deter-
mine the character and condition and
the methods of the military force, and
necessarily their management of the
army is marked by ignorance and worse.
The result was bad at Santiago. It will
be infinitely more disastrous should we
unhappily get into war with one or more
of the great powers which are seeking
control in the Pacific.
The British monarchy is restrained and
directed, it is true, by the law-making
power, but it is not hampered by it — at
least it is not hampered as is our own
executive by Congress. It cannot exer-
cise a will independent of and above the
law, but it is not forced to accept its im-
portant administrative officers at the dic-
tation of either House of the legislative
branch, as our President is often com-
pelled to do by the Senate, and it pos-
sesses in a large measure the discretion
which is essential to sound administra-
tion. Undoubtedly the finest administra-
tive body in the world is the civil service
of Great Britain — trained, permanent,
resting on merit alone, its members bound
to no duty but to that of administering
the laws faithfully and impartially, and
protected from punishment or degrada-
tion for their political opinions, or for
compelling “great men ” as well as little
men to obey. We also have begun to
build up a trained and permanent civil
service, but for inferior officers only, and
we will not have such an efficient ex-
ecutive as Hamilton hoped for and ex-
pected from the Constitution until we rec-
ognize the fact that the legislative branch
of the government must be checked ; that
our fathers went too far in their crusade
against the executive power; that, how-
ever excusable may have been their
fear of kings in the eighteenth century,
there are strong reasons now why the
constitutional consequences of that fear
should be modified, and why there should
be a readjustment of the relations between
the executive and legislative branches of
the government. The fact that the revolt
against executive power in the eighteenth
century went too far for the comfort of
the nineteenth in this country is not yet
generally or even widely recognized, but
that there is now a revolt against undue
legislative power is evident from the
growing length and complexity of the
State constitutions, and in the efforts of
the people, expressed in their own funda-
mental laws, to limit and restrain the
power of their legislatures.
Numerous illustrations of the executive
incapacity or invalidity of a democracy
are to be obtained from a study of the his-
tory of our diplomatic relations with for-
eign countries. W e have al ways possessed
a “ militia diplomacy,1’ although it is the
tendency to underrate the efficiency of
the individuals, from the President down,
who have been charged with the duty of
conducting negotiations, and to lose sight
of the responsibility of the Senate and of
divided power for our failures. Amer-
ican diplomacy has not only not been
signally inefficient, it has often been re-
markably successful, and we have made
contributions to international law of
no mean importance. Especially have
we shown, by the number of settle-
ments of international difficulties which
we have effected through arbitration,
that the lack of such an executive as
is incompatible with any conception of
democratic government, with physical
power ready to his will, is not a vice in
a government. American diplomacy,
however, has often seen its triumphs ruin-
ed by the intervention of Congress. Some
twenty years ago an American, who has
had much more training in the diplomatic
service than has usually fallen to the lot
of our citizens, said that he never expect-
ed to see another important treaty ratified
by the Senate. The passion of the mem-
bers of that body for interference with
treaties, for amending them, for consult-
ing the whim as well as the settled opin-
ions of their constituencies, for permitting
personal and party considerations to gov-
ern their votes, had then become intense.
Every lawyer in the Senate wished to in-
sert his small word into a treaty, especial-
ly if the agreement was likely to become
a mile-stone in the progress of our inter-
national relations. Moreover, there was
the growing self-assertiveness of the Sen-
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ate generally, its insistence upon abusing
the powers which had been conferred upon
it by the Constitution. Conditions had
changed. The limitations which had
been set for the purpose of preventing
the usurpations and tyrannies of the ex-
ecutive-usurpations and tyrannies which
were the bogeys of the eighteenth-century
democrats — were now directed to the pur-
pose of robbing the President of his legit-
imate power in the government. Since
the time when the American diplomat
thus prophesied, many treaties have been
ratified by the Senate, but with the ex-
ception of two treaties with China touch-
ing immigration, which were the conse-
quences of political exactions and sup-
posed party necessities, no treaty of striking
importance has been ratified; while the
proposed treaty of arbitration with Great
Britain was practically defeated, as was
the proposed treaty of 1885 with Spain,
regulating the commercial relations be-
tween the United States and the Spanish
West Indies— a convention which might
possibly have prevented war. Our ex-
perience teaches us at least that if we are
to mingle more intimately and aggres-
sively in international affairs than we
have hitherto done, it will not be long
before we shall discover that we cannot
meet Europe on equal diplomatic terms
until our organization of government is
greatly modified, and until we deprive
Congress of its control of delicate interna-
tional relations, of questions involving
peace and war, and requiring secrecy and
despatch for their advantageous solution.
A democracy is possessed by the passion
for legislation. It naturally seeks to ac-
complish objects that have always been
the aim of government, some of which
cannot be accomplished at all, while some
can only be well doue by the agency of a
strong and single-minded executive. A
Russian despot, or a small and compact
oligarchy like that of Venice, or a consti-
tutional British Premier, with an organ-
ized civil service inheriting the customs
and traditions of a time when the mon-
arch was the real executive, can accom-
plish effectively and economically what
the government of the people cannot ac-
complish at all, or only at an enormous
sacrifice. The carrying on of war is to
a democracy one of the most if not the
most difficult and expensive of all gov-
ernmental functions, and next to war
comes the task of maintaining delicate
and intricate international relations. If
this task is to be conducted in a manner
that will best promote the interests of the
state, there must be as little friction as
possible with other states, there must be
always ready, and often quick, decision,
and there ought to be continuity of for-
eign policy. All of these essential, or at
least desirable, elements are foreign to
the spirit of democracy. As a rule, the
American people conduct their foreign
affairs by mass-meeting. Congress insists
on directing them, and its course, and
sometimes its language and its manners,
in dealing with a foreign country, are in
accordance with what its demagogues re-
gard as public opinion or public prejudice.
I do not speak of this inherent weakness
of a democracy in war and in diplomacy
merely by way of criticism, but as a fact
of the first importance, to be taken seri-
ously into account, for if we are to enter
the field asa “ world power,” our system
as well as our policy must be changed ;
we must then have a consistent and con-
tinuous foreign policy, instead of one that
is vacillating, changeable, and regardless
of the feelings or prejudices of other na-
tions. We must be able to negotiate in
secret, and to determine and conclude
treaties before the public is aware of their
terms. We must also be polite to foreign
powers. If we are to have frontiers in
every ocean of the world, which would
mean probable complications and possible
wars, the body that stands for us ought
not to be so many purposed or so respon-
sive to theshiftings of popular whims and
prejudices that it will almost inevitably
increase tension, or add to chances of dis-
agreement, or repel favors and alliances
by frankly expressing its contemptuous
opinion of a possible antagonist. More-
over, we must then construct a strong
colonial administrative force. We cau-
not select colonial Governors from the
ranks from which we appoint Indian
agents. We ought to seek for higher
character than our Presidents have been
content with in selecting Governors of
Territories. We cannot turn over coloni-
al post-offices to the mercies of star- route
contractors. It will not do to leave to
Congress the direction of every detail of
administration. We cannot, in a word,
give to chance predatory politicians the
government of distant peoples. At least,
if we do all these things, we shall be the
most monumental failure in colonial en-
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217
terprise that the world has ever known.
Above all, we must maintain a great
army and navy in a constant state of
efficiency — that is, under the absolute
command of trained men who, with their
forces, are not at the mercy of the politi-
cian. Of course all this will be enor-
mously expensive, and perhaps oppressive,
but it will all be necessary for our domes-
tic happiness and peace, if we are to ex-
tend our rule over alien peoples in dan-
gerous localities.
The American executive is well sug-
gested by Mr. James Bryce in The Ameri-
can Commonwealth :
When the law gives to the magistrate a
wide decision, he is powerful, because the law
clothes his will with all the power of the
state. Oil the other hand, if the law goes iuto
very minute details, directing the official to do
this and not to do that, it narrows the dis-
cretion of the executive magistrate. His per-
sonal will and choice are gone. He can no
longer he thought of as a co-ordinate power
m the state. He becomes a mere servant, or
hand, to carry out the biddiug of the legislative
brain, or, we may even say, a tool in the legis-
lative hand.
It was the purpose of the founders of
this republic, because of their experience
with the headless Confederation, to es-
tablish an executive power, but they so
limited it that it has really become what
Mr. Bryce describes as the “mere ser-
vant ” or the “tool ” of the legislative
branch of the government. The framers
believed with Thomas Hooker, that “ they
who have the power to appoint officers
and magistrates have also the right to set
the bounds and limitations of the power
and place unto which they call them.”
But they went too far in their effort to
restrain the executive, or rather in their
effort to retain power through the legis-
lative branch — the branch of the govern-
ment which most directly speaks the will
of the people, the masters.
The interference of the legislative
branch of the government with the ex-
ecutive makes the executive weak and
uncertain. If any one wishes to discov-
er the extent of legislative interference,
be has only to consult a general appro-
priation act. There he will find that the
national executive has really hardly any
discretion. Congress directs every act,
from the most important to the most triv-
ial. Besides the larger limitations upon
its power, Congress decides for it the
character and extent of every river or
harbor improvement, often against the
recommendations of the expert engineers.
It directs the location and character of
every light house, buoy, and spindle, ev-
ery post-route, and every letter-delivery.
It does not even permit the executive to
employ a clerk or a telephone-operator
without its consent, or to buy or to repair
a wagon used in the service of a depart-
ment. It rents a wagon -shed for the
Treasury Department. It buys and re-
pairs harness. It prohibits the employ-
ment of any one, even for an emergency,
except at rates fixed by law. It even de-
termines the number of postage -stamps
that may be used in each department
during the fiscal year. Indeed, it is so
busy concerning these trifles that it
usually has no time for the consideration
of larger subjects. The fact that they
are trifles may suggest that they are not
worth mentioning; but they are symp-
tomatic. The Congress that limits and
hampers the executive in small matters,
also, it must be recollected, takes away
from it the real command of the army
and navy, defeats its attempts to make
treaties with foreign powers, dictates its
appointees for important offices, and re-
fuses to leave to experts the establish-
ment of our monetary system. One re-
sult of legislative control of the details
of administration is that hardly one of
the executive functions of the govern-
ment is thoroughly well administered.
From the office of the member of the
cabinet to the smallest post-office or con-
stable we have, as a rule, inefficient ser-
vice, and often corruption. We have
what we might expect from men, many
of whom are uncertain as to the length
of their service, directed as to their duties
by rules made by a large and often in-
different body of politicians at Washing-
ton. That the legislative branch is the
chief power in the country is not, it is
true, an evil. Our democratic experi-
ment implies such rule, and the rule of
a thoroughly independent and strong ex-
ecutive would be inconsistent with it. A
rule like that of Porfirio Diaz in Mexico,
for example, would not be tolerated here.
The will that dominates in essentials
must continue to be the will of the peo-
ple expressed through their representa-
tives in the legislature. It is certain,
however, that the legislative branch has
gone too far in one direction in its en-
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croachments on the rights of the individ-
ual, and, in the other, in its emasculation
of the executive; but while the time has
not yet come to think of surrendering
the blessings of self-government and the
virtues of representative government, on
account either of evils which may be
cured or apparent evils which are inher-
ent in democracy, there is no doubt that
it is time to reconsider the relations of the
legislative and executive departments,
with a view to restraining the former and
strengthening the latter, for with our
present organization the executive power
of the government ought not to be
charged with new international con-
cerns or with the duty of governing
colonies, for it is not even adequate to
present demands, largely because it is
not permitted to exercise any will or
discretion of its own. In order that our
democratic government may efficiently
perform the services and the duties prom-
ised and commanded by the laws, it will
be necessary to free the executive, and to
make the administrative power more ef-
fective. This is essential in order to ob-
tain a power capable of good administra-
tion of the laws and policies of the pop-
ular source of power. Such an executive
as a king or a kaiser or a Diaz would, it
is true, put an end to our political experi-
ment. We do not need such a power
for efficiency, but we do need executive
and administrative officers who can be
trusted to put into operation the conclu-
sions of the legislative body in the wisest
and most effective manner. Having such
an executive and such an administrative
force, the legislature should cease to bind
their will and discretion by vexatious de-
tails of the kind which I have specified.
The law should state the end to be ac-
complished and the amount of money to
be expended for the attainment of the de-
sired object, and then the executive and
administrative officers should be left free
to carry out the legislative will. Such a
change of organization would give to the
country an executive equal to the task of
properly and efficiently administering the
existing system and existing laws. At
present we have not even such an ex-
ecutive, while if we are to go further
afield to take on new functions hitherto
foreign to us, and contrary to our early
policy, without at the same time making
such changes in our organization and
adding such powers to our executive as
to work a revolution, our attempt at
expansion will very likely bring to us
disaster and humiliation, failure and
shame, that may in turn lead to a revolt
against the very form of government
which we have so laboriously established,
a revolt which will in a moment turn
back the clock of progress a century; for
revolt follows, as we saw at the outset of
this article, when the people are discon-
tented with the power which decides
how much taxes they shall pay, and for
what the revenues shall be employed —
with the power, in other words, which is
the dominant factor in their government.
A century ago that power was the ex-
ecutive power, and to day it is the legis-
lative power. It has been demonstrated,
we think, that on the whole, and notwith-
standing present excesses and socialistic
tendencies, the rule of the legislative
power is best for the individual, because
it leaves him the largest liberty consistent
with any government at all. It ought,
however, to be tempered and restrained
for the attainment of still better govern-
ment under our present system, while if
we are to enter the field where the ex-
ecutive alone can succeed, the weaknesses
which Congress displays in the smaller
executive tasks which it has. under taken
point clearly enough to disastrous failure
in larger and more exacting tasks. If it
cannot properly command an army of
25,000 men; if it has demonstrated that
the power to declare war should be taken
away from it because of the fact that the
once feared and suspected executive turns
out to be more conservative and possessed
of a graver sense of responsibility than
the representatives of the people have
manifested; if it cannot assent to any
treaty of importance because of divided
councils; if it must intrude its many and
awkward fingers into the small details of
daily administrative duties— it follows in-
evitably that its undertaking to play a
part the success of which depends abso-
lutely upon a single head and a single con-
science must be an abject failure. Now
the abject failure of a government invites
overthrow, and therefore to contemplate
colonial expansion under our present
system, or without a material and revo-
lutionary strengthening of the execu-
tive, is to invite such a revolt against
legislative power as the eighteenth-cen-
tury democrats raised against executive
power.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
BY MARY 3
ON Monday morning Love Lord sat
on the side-door step, stitching some
fine linen shirt bands for her father. It
was a day in early May, moving from
dawn to dark with a rush of strong fresh
winds, made almost as palpable as wings ,
by the apple and cherry blossoms which
they loosened and bore away from the
trees. There was a fine apple-orchard in
full bloom in the rear of Parson Reuben
Lord’s gray shingled house, three large
white -plumed cherry-trees stood in the
^ide yard, but Love would never taste the
apples and cherries therefrom, unless per-
chance some scanty measure of poor fruit
could not be readily sold. All of Parson
Lord’s alabaster boxes of life were sold,
and the proceeds devoted to foreign mis-
sions. Love had never questioned the
wisdom of it; she had never questioned
the wisdom of any of the orderings of her
life. She regarded them as indirectly or-
dained by Providence through her father,
and not to be cavilled at, except possibly
in one instance. Love at twelve years of
age had had many lacks of life, but only
one active sorrow, and that sense of loss
and deprivation after the delight of pos-
session which induces rebellion.
Love had lost her mother when she
was scarce more than a baby ; she had been
brought up by a rigorous widow, a dis-
tant relative of her father’s, who had train-
ed her according to all letters of law and
faith. So inexorable had been her method,
so thoroughly had Love been taught to
perforin her duties, that there had seemed
to be danger of their losing the distinc-
tion of hand and individual work. Little
Love had lived as under the self- regula-
ting motive power of an automaton, her
native inclinations, whether toward grace
or perversity, being wholly amenable to
her instructress, as to a spiritual sun and
wind. Cousin Daphne Weatlierhead, as
the widow was called, was the only per-
son with whom she was brought in close
contact through her childhood. Of her
father she saw very little except at meals,
at family prayers, and on Sabbath days,
when she saX for hours, with her solemn
innocent eyes intent upon him, as he pro-
S. WILKINS.
claimed the truths of the Word and the
terrors of the law from his beetling pul-
pit.
Parson Reuben Lord was so closely
welded to his faith and his devotion that
ihe seemed to gain therefrom a strange
/stiffness, almost ossification, of spirit. Peo-
ple, while holding him in utmost respect
for his stern consistency of life, yet re-
garded him with awe which had in it
something of terror. His fervent zeal for
the cause of missions seemed the ruling
passion of his life. His two brothers were
still laboring in foreign fields. It had been
the sorest trial of his life that delicate
health in his youth had kept him at home
in narrower and more peaceful tillage. It
had also been a sore trial to him that his
first-born child had not been a son, whom
he could devote, with more certainty of the
acceptability of the sacrifice, to the cause
of Christ in heathen lands. There was,
however, a belief in the village that he
had so devoted his first-born daughter,
Elizabeth. When the child died, at the
early age of seven, after a most wonder-
ful life and precocious maturity of reli-
gious experience, afterward celebrated in
a memoir which became a village clas-
sic, people were strengthened in this be-
lief. It was also reported, on the author-
ity of Aunt Betsey Ware, who had officiated
at both births, that the parson made a
similar dedication to the Lord of his sec-
ond daughter, Love, in spite of the ex-
postulations of his poor wife Mehitable,
whose maternal affection overcame her
religious ardor.
It was even said that Mehitable Lord
had faded away and died because of her
preying grief over the loss of her first-
born, and the fear lest the second, who
was delicate, and had that sensitiveness
of disposition which is sometimes thought
prophetic of early death, should follow
her. However that may have been,
Mehitable Lord died when Love was too
young to have anything but that vague
sense of loss of love in the abstract which,
while it changes the whole savor of life,
does not rend it with bitterness. Love
had no little mates during her childhood.
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
220
HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
Cousin Daphne Weatherhead, seeming-
ly with the best of motives, kept her aloof
from them. “You are the minister’s
daughter, and should endeavor to follow
in the footsteps of your sainted sister,”
Cousin Daphne would remark if the little
maid seemed to cast a wistful eye toward
the frolics of the young of her kind.
Poor little Love used, for she learned to
read at an early age, to strive to console
and amuse herself with the perusal of the
memoir of her sainted sister. Sitting in
her little chair, with the book on her
small aproned knees, she bent her child-
ish brows over its pious pages, and pon-
dered gravely its every word.
Love’s childhood, which might well
have been considered somewhat dull and
joyless, though so straightly ordered in
the paths of righteousness and peace, held,
however, but one grief. When she was six
years old she had had a doll presented to
her by a loving old dame who had brought
up a family of fourteen children. The
doll had belonged to her youngest daugh-
ter, and was a homely, rustic specimen of
her race; but Love took it to her heart
with a great content and the most credu-
lous admiration. She was guilty of the
one act of deception and the one lie of
her childhood for the protection of this
poor doll which had come to her for mo-
therhood. She hid the fact of its pos-
session from Cousin Daphne, and then
she told a falsehood when questioned.
The pleased old grandmother who had
given it to her told of it here and there
with innocent garrulity, not dreaming it
would do harm. But when Cousin Daphne
heard the news, home she came, and poor
little Love underwent a miniature in-
quisition, and remained firm under her
rack and thumb screw. “ No, Grandma
Streeter didn’t ever give me any doll,”
declared she, with blue eyes looking
straight into Cousin Daphne's, yet with a
recoil glance of horror at her own wicked-
ness. The word of this small sister of a
departed saint was pitted against that of
an ancient mother in Israel, but Cousin
Daphne made diligent search, and discov-
ered the doll hidden away under Love’s
feather bed. When she held it before
Love, and the child saw the beloved sym-
bolic baby, never of any beauty whatever,
and now battered and marred by the
caresses and corrections of many mothers,
until only a little girl in whom the first
strength of maternal imagination can en-
compass miracles could hold her of any
account whatever, she expressed no shame
or contrition; she only stretched out her
arms with a cry of love and agony:
“Give her to me! oh, give her to me!
Don’t take her away, Cousin Daphne !”
That confirmed matters. Love did not
see the doll again for years ; and she knelt,
in company with her father and Cousin
Daphne, until, out of docility and terror,
her soul was melted within her with contri-
tion for her heinous sin. Poor little Love
seemed to almost see the lapping of the
infernal fires around her, and she could
not even hold the doll in her arms for
comfort. She used often to wonder where
it was, what Cousin Daphne had done
with it ; but she would no more have
asked her than she would have taken the
name of the Lord in vain. And as for
asking her father, she would never for-
get till her dying day his countenance
of stern wretchedness and condemnation
when Cousin Daphne had told him of her
wickedness, and the almost despairing
fervor of his prayer. She would as soon
have asked for a little graven image.
Love was twelve years old when Cou-
sin Daphne was found one afternoon
sitting stiffly in her chair, with her knit-
ting-work in her motionless hands. She
did not come to prayers, and when Love
went to call her, Cousin Daphne’s face
looked at her unseeingly out of the
gathering dusk. After Cousin Daphne’s
death she lived alone with her father, it
being held that with her fine training she
was able to keep his house at the age of
twelve. Love knelt with her father an
hour every morning and evening, and lis-
tened to his reading of the Scriptures and
prayers. She prepared his frugal meals,
and sat timidly and respectfully opposite
him at table. The rest of the time he re-
mained alone in his study, walled in, as it
were, with the thoughts of dead divines
and fathers of the Church in mummy-
cases of old calf-skin, and was in sore
labor over his many-headed sermons.
Love kept his house, as she had been
taught, as if it were her own soul; she
cleaned it as she would have cleaned her
heart of sin ; she made all the poor fur-
nishings shine as if they had been the
trappings of the Temple, and acquitted
herself like a housewife of twice her age,
to the approbation of all the village ma-
trons. This morning, although it was
still early, the house was neatly set in
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
221
order from garret to cellar, and there
were two hours for the fine stitching be-
fore dinner. She sat there, hearing the
soft rush of the spring wind and breath-
ing in the flurrying sweetness of the
cherry blossoms, but with no conscious-
ness thereof. She set the beautiful
stitches, like a little row of pearls, with
the precision of a machine, her fingers
working with no aid from her mind,
which was intent upon a dream she had
the night before about her lost doll.
As Love sat there the dream was to her
what the perfume was to the cherry blos-
som, and would have been as evident to a
sense made for its perception. Love had
dreamed, the night before, that she was up
in the garret of her father’s house, when
she heard a little wail, like that of a
young baby. She started and looked
around, and it came again, seemingly
from the vicinity of an old hair trunk
which her father had carried to college in
his youth. An experience which she had
had at church that day had possibly, by
some obscure system of suggestion, in-
duced the dream. That Sunday Love had
seen for the first time the squire's new
wife. The squire had lately married for
the second time, a woman from the city,
elderly, but very beautiful and stately.
She had brought her orphan grandson to
live with her. This grandson, Richard
Pierce, was a boy of fourteen, large for
his age and forward of understanding.
He was nearly fitted to enter Harvard
College. That Sunday, young Richard,
sitting in the squire's pew, looked across
at Love, sitting all alone in the parson’s
pew. Love was slim and tall, but with a
pretty round ness under her little drab
spencer cape, with apple curves of pink
cheeks under her scooping bonnet, tied
under her sweet chin with a sober colored
ribbon like her cape. Not a bright
tint was there about Love, except in her
face and hair. Young Master Richard
looked at her witji the half* indifferent,
half earnest gaze of an intellectual boy
whose mind is devoted to matters in his
estimation more important than the faces
of girls, and yet has at times, in his own
despite, his heart stirred faintly with the
instincts and imaginations of his kind.
At last Love, compelled perhaps by his
gaze, looked at him. though it was in the
midst of a fiery appeal from the pulpit.
She gazed at the boy with ail utter calm-
ness and unconsciousness of scrutiny, as
Vol. XCVlll.-No. 684.— 28
if lie were something inanimate. In-
deed, to this young Love, with her perfect
innocence of ignorance and the long
training of her mind on spiritual lines, a
boy did not mean as much as a girl, nor
much more than a rose bush or an apple-
tree. Richard, as if something in himself,
of which he had not known, was discover-
ed by her gaze, looked away with a great
blush, and then Love turned her eyes
from him towards his grandmother.
They were suddenly alert, full of the
most timid yet ardent admiration. The
one love with which the child bad any
acquaintance, and for which she had as
yet any yearning, was in the face of that
elderly dame. It shone plain to her sight
when she glanced at the grandson by her
side, and it beamed forth, like a light in
the windows of a home, when she saw
little Love gazing at her in such timidly
beseeching and admiring wise. Love cast
down her eyes before the sweet mother-
look of the squire’s lady, her heart, leapt,
her mouth quivered as if she would weep.
She thought that never, never since her
own mother, whose caresses she remem-
bered better than her face, had there been
any one as beautiful as this woman.
That morning Love heard no more of her
father’s discourse. She was conscious
of nothing except that mother-presence,
which seemed to pervade the whole
church. The inexorable fatherhood of
God, as set forth in the parson’s sermon,
was not as evident to the hungry little
heart in His sanctuary as the mother-
hood of the squire’s lady. She continued
to gaze at her at intervals, with softly
furtive eyes of adoration, as if the lady
were the Blessed Mary, and she a lit-
tle papist; and when she sometimes re-
ceived a tenderly benignant glance in re-
turn, she scarcely knew where her body
was, such was the elation of her spirit.
When, after meeting, she was going down
the aisle, and came abreast of the wonder-
ful lady, and the soft sweep of her velvet
cloak brushed her face like a wing, she
could not help an involuntary nestle
against her side, as if she were a baby.
Then the squire's lady bent down, her
beautiful old face framed in gray curls,
and smiled, and lifted her hand, and
patted Love gently on the smooth curve
of her cheek. Love could have gone
down at her feet. Nobody since her
mother’s death had ever caressed her to
that extent. She gave a quick look up
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UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
HARl*Kii^ NEW jvIoNTHLY MAGAZINE.
ii? tlm lady whh sodrplbidg between a . sob tk*w and the afternoon was 'growing old.
badr, foUnwgd, Od culIi6r ^lcJ^ tdYlHy;|^r£d, t4te
her out of idiurrli . aihl •tvaU'hfed her drum eaves lav louy: shadows of dark mysu-ry;
away ntih the MjUiiv ami Master Hirin' whirl* id the child's evened fancy mpinSil
,0 (1; though she tbd jhH .SeKiimtn «t'*dl. x>tim \umje; The gS* r-*£ , like
Somehow Uto. r)ir--si!Hr;' with th* I In* l'*Rt of the Innua, Was very clean and
Hlftm-eN hid y set Jawc to ihiuk iu- . room api*V4* All the smali stoiv. of ds ,* aid'd
stmmh>u^jy than iiSUufyrd f he h-«?. doll of / household fVt!Ml 1%fi 1 0|T.S was M.OW, i\ 00$
hfU' ohildlun?d, uotj i h:tf Mfoht she dream- tieiitlr the ea *ms, and t In - - ? % ; . i{ \ le
fn! io Urn old iyupk, spare \vuk l >4 re. Lbim youkl $j>y
aiol skdtleoly her ijol! her fYonj uiy- of an old Isiy, wjl^j which hod no?
.btehiml ?t. U Wore t!ir auu^iin I rock been used for many n <. par. add mv*- u .i
fcpr*l|eg^ij #.Hh Ur*c.*o whiidl she r^uiepi cedar chest which oovdaihod liw ncehe: A
j.^|u,d %r>ell; ;>?id mmm meagre wardrobe, I wo barrets fV$J o~ *dd
pasteboard eov<vd wUh green satin; but sermohKamhhe J j 4 1. 1 * - hah* trunk. Tjm/*r
the lUMr hire, w hie it looked up ai her w rod rmu'h hAwb*#v except a >uovcvit
won Urn lifte parted in | wail .u is. gjirimik whiyk had hekmged to her jnniuifui | •■*
lytuuumh. tl.a* of U.u b<puhoY lady, gray which hunj* oh .* inhl<mn; t(ie trunk,
riii-lx ami ail. who ;iio tiny cheeks crunV ‘ Love Mood listening, she seared* t,m>w
tiled del irately in pm a and wikie. lifer a n f«f w hut .,- hop i he in llueuee of Inin dr* ant
<dt! tawi-tad, Whuu Love Juvofee, *ke _ ftiron^r upon Hiip vvu-^ tike
rouhj :s»*;.u*re{5 l.rl w vf. ! ha! . Yhaih'ratfi JiMln Sbvtue' id .fear hi I ui U~r
not'.imh ' h^ni^- our of t{in*<* fh*' wfyoro si r.jiyh! hlur pou n, hm* hands fd-U; ehtu^-
(if!;PUo>> urn srparaird froiit lio*_*‘parhv h> nerv-msh fU her sides, her eyes mkithj£'
yhahittyv rtiiher Uutn rdiorp div) io the dusk and her own fVars, • F’ib.«?ly
-nuts :huve WHil over t<» the trunk .and iw-tu'-rd
ponde.if'd <*v:er ft a I? f.he . i» n * r ,, V » » o ; hehifni 0 .Them w.«^ tn.* do|.j liuMp a:
and that uffrrnoo»n )u-.ipiVi{ her h.-iun a v,t oV*r*v in Jn-r d isji fd»»>h>ttripUt .-Hid het re
v(e ^tMj.- rt.iiuh Up *’< 5m,- -Pt'h and he! She vVpmwd (he frunk, and h
stood h^huonk. hr, :HvoPss; o* U*e uod>! IV;/ of *dd khUns. la *vn xi j^mhyw. > .,
ri‘ ih‘ yak Kirpiyh .of- Snare, with ~fhn lsotS*df, H*’id h> d<**inc
n-iau^fe of raft-/;v pUK'-yni: owe Imf father^ surioVii. hj,r sio-v^ o;,po pih.
hkaiE simttl' -Vviii iiiitihhri • h#r^it^;:'yviUi;'
uoyi: stv^i>i> pisTfcss ts u
THE LOVK Oir s ! • ON WHS5
ii-i o\it to practical ii
eoU t poOr ; T > v :.'.;;. .
Love's ki.-A),
Love <o» the 0 \
sh***^, ifn-.i looked ir-
iU * i**> * hm»
>> h •■.*r sti» hiolord
,U lip*
iff .^fe>;iXttfi‘*{ i*§ikh' ' . .. r
‘ im hwu O? Ui^ £*iv«m- - 4 y‘ • •’ > '
i ,!>•■ ;*-♦«{• i v * ' * » tnf *\i‘il ' .;’•. • /,• \ .O ■•'; *: V v
ami hiojiuid Jit il iiPm W'
ti!)n;:ii jr y. :jv. Up* . . • *
s.4Mo* *i!ii * to J i L<> v r l* J«Hr- * jffi
wriii HvrM- o> i.iH' u'uni / '§&${ ,
wmdovOiyod sit down
Off ihy [U}ifV^\\n<\UU[r it f
clotty:;; -Kni; T‘?jj mt r £,
nuenihly £H$U:}-; >till
« )»•■ i;- w .-,. -: »•*>} . •-• ” >
r.i»rO%irt from* live f* 0- • $$$'• ► ’’
> ; i -j •» <ii«- »h«M <o *#/•*» . ; ' y <{ V*V**-
•- Mi\ v. v i . *• »•.-.. ihi " :’ ' ■ '/V.:. * _ . .-
«• *! Ip v»i(: •>* ^'■••:- W-.r;. r V\ ' '
spile <i( hvr- tN>#> yurt km : -
*T •>??>' Titejro W](s- oi y.f -
^ Vv.r. J >'ir- :».?ni .'Uhn- :;;v":>V- -
"«i: t.H {\:r j «>;v of i* ’ : * :
moltK4* . nmcHl £y> a
IodZ <;M Hi.ki Sim
p.i/aO nt H> pom* old
fsiy U**yiViyle .\/’.: : ; *T’ 1 i-
JOoUtb puiotHil gwy- . . . • . V
;vuh piilvP-lier
t‘r its tijgN^ri^ :>r> .•
UHiUiwi lb ^ “Hli t',KT'T A VAUUE Wfi^OS:; : ,
Ii»Jid tok )^i»e
loV'to.v’iy I;Im'. .vo:4h(v )»vks inado ^ ri^vc-r’ iooketi tOrwnn! trnpfOionf ly to i>is
r.iVvi^- i bvM;vn Nj;u si-i^kn.*/. St»» ki«h\v ^•i.p)»‘>T< hour; aiitl it w.u »iouUi';*ii if hf*. iiud
thiti ii>r doll v;is v u/rj y ( )>i 4?; , !>v m i‘H-pr partaken of tin weii! .with n full p^J*:
v‘i*j ip iodr-r . lipi>‘,vJ«*Jo;*> of love, she otso . §<* -jvuoo of iU quality iVr qii.iiaity, .being,
know *viii |;iir. Sn*MnvvMfsl her r iu-itdy ’liwavs more or >*;hxtr:t\«,Jod i'roU.
t*> fi^r ;; hoKotti.,' t{»rohht(ie vOlh 4 IrmiUrrOI tiihi£^;, plglit : Ii U jyre
■»*{■ 'MkoOo ind vuih. nfu! yvi WitU over ln§ sixihl v witlooi! . ■kH*>vvin.ir ^hy.
khv^l ;liftr as ;4i)e had 3Jit U54
‘ a * VfH- • k /4‘t i y '. f l?y i u t hi n^ thr UV ftte
Thu! niyhl Person Lor»i% supper svas the i«H%'i!/W;is ]{Or'.; jud.. FnUi>\vti*i' hrv> vnin*
ri inoir fahe Ite. vvorkmir % rumlia- out a w.msd. aoit took Ihs pLioo aj ilfie t«
h^-ht hi hO ^roxlyk ryiv I hut uneash- • hie. anvl iyo .vai hO Ip:>hJ for- tltiV hoJ« nMi iy
'Hi n ^ivhs from iicr oitrprMjMhil.i nniHeosl UtX^fogv I’he nnfiil \v^ f‘» n
of 'it it.un.. HH.ni wUk’*} <,H f>\i(iOi:At ■' ><it rj'ss &i} 4ll Mteais >very :0 J\Hsr>n | j. ini's-
of HOiol iiihh aiUmiiiOi n ' 7;,ay ,i'»>:.; a l»m'vn h>.'tf, a p»K*hrr of uU\k4 .nil
Hu v;f iyhiUrmed do-nug'h lifrlioM- i»3a tvqtil6 *4 ^iV. ‘‘
Thrnugj-h liHs .mirfifO. nf bpirihr.il hiod ho h’»e tr.n was ire to U> ‘.iiun^iU; of, wuh t«»r
•st-i h’/vrerK* »yvi?r tnjro roos«;it.nu o-f .ar;y UiU.sioH^ in ^yr}i 0$i nord.
desire lor that of the ■Mesh; Tie lu»d That 1 1 i c h t Pai soo Lv»?;d ,Hi Ins bapprr
;rv%\»v.s.
THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
225
with a curious mechanical gusto, as if
his body, through its long fast, might be
asserting itself without the knowledge or
connivance of his mind. He did not no-
tice that his daughter ate nothing, nor
her disturbed face. After he had done
he bowed his head reverently again, gave
thanks to the Lord for His mercies in a
lengthy list, and returned to his study.
An hour afterward, when Love had
washed and put away the supper dishes
and set the bread to rising, she knocked
at the study door, twice and thrice before
her father heard her. At last he bade
her enter, and looked up absently when
the door opened, expecting to see some
brother or sister in quest of spiritual aid,
as was often the case. Instead, there
stood his own daughter, pale and trem-
bling piteously, holding the old doll in
her arms. Parson Lord stared at her,
took off his spectacles, wiped them, and
stared again. “What do you want, my
child?” he inquired.
Before he had finished speaking, Love
came to his side and stood there in an
agony of contrition, displaying the doll.
u I found her where Cousin Daphne hid
her,” she said, in a strained, quick way;
then she sobbed; all her staid ness and
propriety of demeanor had failed her.
The parson stared at her, his thin lips
parted, his high forehead knitted. He
had entirely forgotten the episode of the
doll. Poor Love had to repeat the whole
story. A light of understanding came
into the parson’s eyes as he listened.
“And you fpund it, you say, this after-
noon?” he said, in a curious voice.
“ Yes, father,” replied Love. Then she
cried, with a great sob of appeal, “Oh,
father, may I keep her now?”
Parson Lord’s face quivered a little as
he looked at her, then settled again into
its usual lines of ascetic sternness and
gravity. None but his Maker knew if it
cost him a struggle, but he refused the
child; he bade her carry the doll back
where she had found it. Love obeyed
without a demur. She took a candle,
went slowly up the steep garret stairs,
stole trembling through the dark flicker-
ing stretch of shadows to the old surtout
hanging with an awful semblance of life
from the nail in the rafters, gave the poor
doll one last fervent caress, and thrust it
back in the sleeve, pinning it therein as
before. That night Reuben Lord knelt
long with his daughter in earnest prayer;
You XCVIII — No. 564.-29
her old sins of disobedience and deception
were rekindled to their full enormity,
until they shone before her as in char-
acters of fire. That night Love slept
little, being kept awake by the war be-
tween her innocent members and her
fierce New England conscience. Many
a time, as she lay there, it seemed to her
that she must arise, steal up stairs, rescue
the doll from the darkness and loneli-
ness, and hold it through the rest of the
night close in her arms.
The next day was the Sabbath, and
Love, sitting alone in the parson’s pew,
was much paler and soberer of counte-
nance than usual. Once in a while,
though she strove to keep her mind upon
the sermon, her mouth quivered when
she thought of the doll. Perhaps it was
that which led the squire’s lady to favor
her with such special and gracious notice
at the close of the services. That beauti-
ful and stately lady, when she reached
Love lingering at the door of the pew,
actually put caressingly about her an
arm draped with silk shimmering with
purples like the breast of a dove, and
bade her a “ Good -morning, my dear
child.” Love never knew whether she
answered her or not. She went home in
a sort of ecstasy, as of first love.
The squire’s lady was in reality her
first love. However fond she might be
again of others, the affection would go
forth in a worn channel. The girl heard
that tender voice multiplying into infinite
cadences of love and comfort in all the
voices of the spring day. Love’s cheeks
were so flushed and her eyes so strange
with happiness that even her father no-
ticed it when she sat opposite him at the
dinner table.
His mind had been intent upon his
afternoon discourse, when suddenly he
looked up as if at a touch upon the shoul-
der. His daughter sat before him just
as usual, dressed in her little homely gown
of a dull drab-color, with never a ribbon
bow to brighten it. Her pretty fair hah
braided so smoothly and tightly that th“
very color seemed compressed, was cros^
ed in the usual flat mat at the back of
her head, and brought over her ears in
two satinlike folds, with high lights of
polish at the sides. Her father saw no-
thing unusual in her except that blue
shining of eyes which seemed almost
wild, and that flush of cheeks which
seemed almost fever, and an involuntary
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HARPER’S NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
curving of lips into smiles which seemed
almost levity. #
First the parson inquired of his daugh-
ter if she were ailing, and then if she
were in a state of mind befitting the day.
To both inquiries Love replied dutifully,
her color deepening, to the former with
a respectful negative, to the latter with a
modest hesitancy of hope that she might
be, which was reassuring. However, her
father continued to gaze at her now and
then in the same curious and anxious
way. He looked not only at her face,
but at her dress and her hair, as if he
saw them for the first time. He contin-
ued to gaze at her in the same fashion
later on when they walked to the meet-
ing-house for the afternoon service. He
seemed to see the patient, sober young
figure at his side with ever-recurring sur-
prise. He scanned again and again the
homely dun -colored gown, falling in
scanty folds to the clumsy little shoes,
the poor bonnet tied with dull ribbon.
Then he looked from her to some gayer
figures moving along the road with flut-
ters of bright streamers and flounces.
Love would haVe been disturbed by
this unwonted notice of her father had
not her whole mind been intent upon the
squire’s lady, who was not there, indeed,
but whose presence seemed more vital
to her than that of any who sat under
the parson’s preaching. Until the ser-
mon began she watched anxiously for
the object of her adoration to enter, and
when she became certain that she was
not coming, she felt a pang at heart the
like of which she had never known be-
*fore. She could have wept when she
saw Master Richard Pierce coming up
the aisle alone. She could not bear to
look at the squire’s pew; once when
young Richard’s persistent gaze of admi-
ration forced her unwilling attention, she
almost scowled at him, so sad and impa-
tient was she, and jealous of her own
self for the sake of the squire’s lady.
However, after a while she became in a
manner reconciled to her disappointment,
and fell to musing tenderly over past joy,
and building air-castles for the future.
Love's face then took on such an ex-
pression that the boy in the squire’s pew
gazed at her as if fascinated, seeing for the
first time the dream of love in a young
girl’s face. Richard that day managed
to be at the door of the parson’s pew
when Love emerged; he cast a keen
though somewhat shamefaced glance at
her, but she did not see him at all. 44 1
don’t think that girl is very pretty, come
to see her close to,” he reflected, on his
way home. He resolved not to take the
trouble to look at her again, with the
unconfessed masculine assurance of her
annoyance in that case.
Love would not at that time have
known whether he looked or not, having
eyes for his grandmother only; and the
next day but one something happened to
distract her still farther. Upon that day
Love had the first great and beautiful sur-
prise of. her life. She had been alone since
morning, as she had been the day before.
On Monday and Tuesday of every week the
parson travelled to neighboring towns,
where they had not the benefit of regular
Sabbath services in a church of his own
denomination, and gave them a week-day
rendering of his Lord’s-day sermon. On
Tuesday afternoon Love grew weary of
her needle-work, and thought that she
would have a change of task by way of
harmless recreation. So thinking, she
went up to her chamber to get a sampler
which she was working. When Love
had crossed the threshold of her chamber
she stopped short with a gasp. There in
her little chair sat a doll, not the old rag
doll, but a new, resplendent creature — a
very ideal of dollhood. No unskilled
hands had ever fashioned this radiant
thing of blooming wax and real flaxen
ringlets, of sweetest smiles of baby candor
and innocence, of blue eyes intently beam-
ing at the whole world of child-women
without a special glance of favor for one,
of pink satins and ribbons, of fine linens
and laces. Love stood looking, her eyes
dilated, her breath coming short and
quick. At length she gained courage,
and went nearer and knelt down before
the wonderful thing. Her face was rapt.
It was long before she dared to touch the
doll, to do anything but drink in its beauty
with her eyes and embrace it with her
soul. Finally she rose, with a great sigh
of delicious terror, took up the doll, and
seated herself. As she sat there, with the
little flaxen head on her shoulder, finger-
ing with gentle, reverent fingers the del-
icate mysteries of the fine apparel, she
was, for the first time in her life, in a
state of actual bliss. She had experi-
enced ecstasy at the caressing touch of
the squire’s lady and her loving words,
but this was fruition and realization of
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THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
227
the vague sweet promise of that touch
and word. Love did not doubt for one
minute that the doll came from the boun-
tiful hand of the squire's lady. She rea-
soned away easily enough all difficulties
in the way of its having been brought
secretly to the house and deposited in her
chamber. Love had that order of mind
which springs to conviction, and after-
ward proves the route to it by a facile
imagination. Old Aunt Betsey Ware was
then living at the squire’s.
“Aunt Betsey,” reasoned Love, con-
clusively, 44 is well acquainted with this
house; she knows well where my cham-
ber is, and I have been at work in the
kitchen, where I could not have heard
any one enter, had they stepped softly.”
Moreover, that very forenoon Love had
seen Aunt Betsey hurrying down the
road, with head averted, as if she did not
wish to be noticed. Love knew that the
squire’s lady had given her the doll.
When she heard her father open the door
she rose without a second's hesitation,
and still clasping the doll, followed him
into the study before he had seated him-
self at his desk.
When the parson turned at the sound
of the opening door and saw his daugh-
ter standing there, with the great doll in
her arms, a strange expression came over
his face, the like of which she had never
seen there before. But Love did not heed
that, neither did she fairly know the mat-
ter of her father’s answer to her quiver-
ing statement concerning the doll, and
her pitiful petition that she be allowed to
keep it. In truth, it was a long and
somewhat stilted speech which Parson
Lord made to ii is trembling daughter,
and it was not singular that Love, in her
agitation, should grasp only the gist of it—
that she might keep the doll. Love, with
her New England shamefacedness as to
all demonstration, only dropped a prim
little courtesy, said 44 Thank you, sir,” and
went out, with the doll’s pink face look-
ing over her shoulder; but there might
well have been a perceptible darkening
of the room, so much joy went with her.
Love that night was fairly possessed
with affection and gratitude; she loved
her father as she had never loved him be-
fore, and he seemed nearer to her. She
had not mentioned her belief that the
squire's lady was the donor of the pre-
cious gift. She thought, jumping at that
conclusion as she bad done at the other,
that her father must know it as well as
she. Who but the squire’s lady could
have given her the doll?
Love then entered at once upon a new
epoch in her life. It seemed a strange
thing that the possession of a plaything
of childhood should all at once transform
her character from that of a child to that
of a woman, but such was apparently the
case. Love never played, in the strictest
sense of the word, with her doll ; she never
tended it with that sweet make-believe of
motherhood in dressing and nursing;
but the doll surely sent her heart into
blossom, being perhaps the little stimulus
of love needed for that end. At this time
there came into the girl’s face that ex-
pression of sweet intelligence and gentle
comprehension, instead of the mere inno-
cent outlook of childhood. People meet-
ing Love in those days used to look at
her carelessly, as one looks at any wonted
object, then look again and again with
growing wonder, as at a change which
they could not define. Some, after meet-
ing her so, said she had grown tall, some
that she had grown pretty, some that she
grew to look more like her mother, or fa-
ther, or Cousin Daphne. Whatever they
said, people noticed her more. A few
weeks after she had come into the pos-
session of her doll, the squire’s lady, one
morning, sent over Aunt Betsey Ware
with a formally worded message.
44 Mrs. Squire Hawkes desires her com-
pliments to Miss Love Lord, and would
be pleased to have her company at tea
this afternoon,” said Aunt Betsey, with a
fine and consequential pucker, and Love
could only courtesy in unquestioning
gratitude and acquiescence, like one who
is bidden to an audience with a queen.
That very morning Master Richard
Pierce had departed for college, and his
grandmother, feeling sad and lonely, had
bethpught herself of the parson’s sweet
little daughter whom she had noticed so
often in meeting, that it would be a com-
fort to have another young face at her
tea table that night.
Love had never been in the squire’s
house since the advent of this second
wife. This was to institute a new order
of things. She sat at the dainty tea
table opposite the squire’s lady — the
squire himself was confined to his room
with rheumatism — ate gingerly and del-
icately of the cream biscuits, the quince
sauce, and the pound-cake. She sipped
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her tea from the blue china cup, with
timid lifts, over the rim, of blue eyes at
the kind and gracious face opposite; she
spoke modestly when she was spoken to,
and if she volunteered a remark, did so
with a sweet deference which was pretty
to behold. The squire’s lady was even
more pleased with the child than she had
thought to be.
“She is a dear child,” she told the
squire when Love had gone, and she was
in his chamber mixing the sleeping-cup
for which she had a dainty hand. “ She
is a dear child. I mean to have her of-
ten to tea. ’Tis a treat to her, too. I
hear the good parson keeps her close and
is over-strict with her.”
“ Did she tell you so?” asked the squire,
beginning to sip his spiced and comfort-
ing drink from his silver cup.
“No; she said nothing; she never
would, unless I mistake her greatly,” re-
plied his wife. “I had it from Aunt
Betsey, who formerly lived there.” The
squire’s lady, beautiful and gracious
though she was, still got some savor to
life from a little harmless gossip.
“Well, ’tis true enough,” said the
squire, “true enough. The parson has
driven her with a mighty tight rein, and
taught her to shy at the first scent of the
devil.” The squire had been in his day,
and was still, a great lover of horseflesh.
“Why, bless you, my dear,” said the
squire, “ I don’t suppose that child ever
had anything but the drippings of the
contribution-box to eat or wear or make
merry with. Every cent that the parson
can save goes to foreign missions. Why,
he sells every apple in his orchard — all
except the windfalls — and sends the pro-
ceeds to India’s burning strand; never
one left for that poor child to have a
bite of, fine apples too, a rare kind,
brought from overseas by his grandfa-
ther. I’ve tried to graft from ’em, and
couldn't. I don’t suppose that child ever
has a lollypop or a sweet-cake unless it’s
given her, and I don’t know but her fa-
ther would make her sell it then and
drop in the penny next Sabbath day.
Never a ribbon flying, or a frill setting
her off. I’ve noticed her myself. I
used to know her mother; used to think
sometimes — I was perfectly satisfied with
my own wife, you know, my dear — but I
used to think that if I had been a young
man, and my wife had married somebody
else, I would have known how to look
out for her better than the man who had
her — one of the prettiest girls anywhere
about. I wonder if the parson intends
to send his daughter to Burmah or the
Fiji Islands? Well, he is a good man,
and he has stepped along in his path of
duty without a kick or a shy, and I sup-
pose he is sure of finding his heavenly
pasture at last. I wish some other peo-
ple were as sure.” The squire finished
his cup as he spoke, and handed it to his
wife for replenishment.
“ It would be a cruel thing for him to
send that little wild rose of a girl to any
of those deadly climates; she looks as if
she might have inherited delieacy from
her mother too. I can’t believe he will,”
said she, tilting the china pitcher care-
fully. “I shall invite her to tea again
next week. I think the poor child will
be benefited by it.”
So it came to pass that every Wednes-
day afternoon Love went to take tea at
the squire’s house. Her father gave his
consent, Love could not help thinking,
with a certain constraint of pleasure at
the invitation. “The squire’s wife is a
godly woman, and, I hear, a notable
housekeeper; her example may profit you
in some things, as your mother’s would
have done,” the parson said.
Love thought that her father seemed
pleased when some fresh gifts, which she
attributed, like the others, to the bounty
of the squire’s lady, arrived. 4A few days
after her first tea-drinking at the squire's,
on a warm night in early Majr, there was
a loud knock at the front door, and when
Love answered it, no one was there, but a
dainty package was swinging by a cord
to the latch.
Love, after opening it in the sitting-
room, carried it to her father, who sat over
his sermon in the study, and displayed,
with rapture and terror at what he might
say, the fine India muslin for a gown,
the beautiful blue ribbon to tie arouud
her waist, and the little morocco shoes.
Her father, much to her astonishment,
did not withhold his permission for her
to keep the gifts, yet he spoke almost
sternly regarding them, and impressed
upon her her duty in not placing undue
importance upon such frivolities, in view
of the serious life work before her.
Love went clad in her new finery to
take tea with the squire’s lady, and her
heart was in such a flutter of gratitude
she made no expression of it, except by
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THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
229
an eloquent look at her friend when she
praised the beauty of her gown.
Why, my dear, what have we here,
a little white rose instead of a little Quak-
er lady?” the squire's wife asked, smiling
at Love, fluttering before her in her mus-
lin frills; and Love only smiled back at
her, and blushed with modest pride and
affection.
Love had a delicacy, perhaps exagger-
ated and misplaced, about returning open
thanks for surreptitious benefits. She
said never a word to the squire's wife
about the gifts. Indeed, a number of
times Mi*s. Squire Abner Hawkes gave
the child presents with no pretence of
secrecy; there were three old gowns of
her own among them — one, the pride of
Love's heart, of a blue figured satin.
Love altered these gowns to fit her slen-
der shape, and wore them to the admira-
tion and somewhat to the wonder of all
beholders. They thought it strange that
Parson Lord should allow his daughter to
go dressed so gavly, especially to the house
of God. Love, who was henceforth al-
ways a bird of fine plumage, never talked
much about these showers of surreptitious
benefits to her father. She never men-
tioned the squire’s lady in that connection,
except now and then to remark upon her
kindness, once especially when she wore
for the first time the remodelled gown of
blue figured satin. It was on a Wednes-
day, when, she was going to take tea at
the squires, and it was four years after
her first visit there. The squire's wife
was a faithful friend, and Love a faith-
ful admirer.
Parson Lord might have pleaded, with
truth, the strength of the temptation, had
lie felt some purely temporal pride in
the appearance of his daughter as she
stood before him in that gown, shimmer-
ing with blue lights from shoulder to
heel, and her lovely head shining with a
golden crown of braids. In fact, a smile
of that utter weakness and fondness which
would have better suited her mother’s
face came over her father's, to Love’s
wonder. But he enjoined her as sternly
as ever not to allow her heart to dwell
upon such vanities, but to remember that
it was only her poor dying body which
was so adorned, then turned again with
his usual grave dignity to his sermon.
Mr. Richard Pierce was to be at the tea-
drinking that afternoon, and Love did not
anticipate the occasion with quite as much
Vol. XCV1II -No. 684 -30
pleasure as usual. Now, she thought, it
would be good-by to her pleasant sittings
and her confidential talks with the squire’s
lady. She had confessed as much to her
friend, who had only patted her cheek
fondly and smiled. Love was afterward
afraid that she had been rude and for-
getful of the claims upon her gratitude
and deference. There, she had actually
as good as told her that she was sorry
her grandson was corning home, when
she had not seen him for so long. Mr.
Richard Pierce, having developed within
himself an amazing spirit of indepen-
dence, had been away the greater part
of his vacations, earning money as tutor,
and possibly in other capacities. There
were those who claimed to have seen
Mr. Richard Pierce, the squire's step-
grandson, following the plough on a farm
twenty miles away like any fanner s son.
During his last vacation he had been in
the old country with two boys whom he
was fitting for college; the one before
that, when he had been home for a few
weeks, Love had been housed with a
quinsy sore throat, and had not seen him.
Indeed, with the exception of a few chance
encounters with him at his grandmother's,
when he had just arrived or was just
leaving, the girl had not seen him at all.
When she reached the squire's house,
and entered the stately old sitting-room,
hung, as to its walls, with dim old oil-
paintings and blurred engravings in
heavy frames, furnished with old ma-
hogany pieces reflecting the light, as in
little pools, from their polished surfaces,
it was at first so dark to her, coming out
of the afternoon sunlight, that she could
see nobody. The shutters were nearly
closed, because the squire’s wife had a
headache. Love saw her friend's face
smiling dimly out of the gloom, heard
her voice greeting her fondly, and felt
her soft lips on her cheek; then she was
presented formally to Mr. Richard Pierce,
and curtsied vaguely before a bowing
shadow. Alter Love had removed her
worked muslin cape and her bonnet, she
seated herself and took out her needle-
work— a fine handkerchief which she was
hem-stitching for her father, having cov-
eted a little daintiness for him as well as
herself. She worked industriously, an-
swering modestly and prettily the squire's
wife when she spoke to her, and fre-
quently giving her fond glances; but she
looked very seldom at Mr. Richard, and
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THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD.
231
replied in gentle but cool monosyllables
when lie ventured to address her.
The young man could scarcely take
his eyes from her, though he strove hard
not to stare rudely. It seemed to him
that he had never in his whole life seen
anything quite so fair and wonderful as
this girl, who seemed to sit in a sort of
blue radiance, with a shaft of sunlight
from the open upper half of the shutter
gilding her head. All the courtly ease
of manner for which lie had been quite
famed among his associates deserted him.
He heard his voice tremble when he ad-
dressed this unresponsive girl; he knew
that his remarks were boyish common-
places. It seemed to him that his grand-
mother s fair guest was in a mood not of
maiden shyness only, but of decided aver-
sion toward himself. He wondered in
what way he could have offended her so
soon. He wondered if she simply object-
ed to him on the score of his personal ap-
pearance. It had always been considered
fair beyond the average, but it might easily
not be so regarded by her. Richard was
not a large man ; he considered that fact
uneasily. He straightened himself to his
fullest height when he crossed the room
to open a shutter. However, his pains
were thrown away; Love did not look at
him at all. Still, although she was ap-
parently oblivious of his presence, she
was, in reality, fully aware of it.
The moment Love had entered the
room, she had been conscious of a strange
and pungent odor. She did not know
what it was, but Mr. Richard smoked to-
bacco, and the scent of it was in his
clothes. Love did not find it disagree-
able, but she perceived it with every
breath she drew, and it gave her a strange
impulse of maiden rebellion, quite out of
proportion to the cause, as if this man
were fairly forcing his presence upon
her, making it a part of her, whether she
would or not.
Love, with a little impatient air foreign
to her, removed the lid from a potpourri-
jar on a stand near her, and bent her face
over it. The scent of rose leaves, lavender,
and spices seemed like a reassertion of the
flavor of her own maiden individuality,
which this man in his tobacco- scented
garments, with his glances of hitherto un-
known masculine pleading, was striving
to overcome.
“It is too pleasant an afternoon for
you to sit here in this dark room with
your needlework,” said the squires lady,
presently. 44 Put it away, my dear, and
Richard will take you out for a stroll in
the garden.*'
Love started. “Thank you,” she fal-
tered, “ I would rather remain here with
you, if you please.”
44 Do as I bid you, my dear,” repeated
the squire's wife, with her air of gentle
authority which no one ever gainsaid.
Love, with no further demur, folded
her needle work and put.it in her bead
bag, and went with Mr. Richard into the
garden at the back of the house.
Up and down the long box-bordered
paths they paced. Love kept her eyes
downcast, and face turned, so that only
the pink curve of it was visible to her
companion. She answered in soft mono-
syllables, a yes, sir, or a no, sir, when he
addressed her with anxious deference. It
spoke well for her charms that this young
man, who had been heretofore treated
very kindly by her sex, should have had
a relish for this strolling in his grand-
mother’s garden with one so sparing of
responsive words and smiles. But Mr.
Richard Pierce, far from appearing bored
or dull, wore a look of rapture, as he paced
the tortuous garden paths, Love’s blue
flounces rustling against him, no matter
how far she shrank away, the pungent
odor of the rank box, which was waist-
high in places, in his nostrils, and now
and then, like the melody triumphing
over the swell of the bass, a breath of
lavender from Love's garments.
They threaded the green maze of the
garden, Richard more adoring at every
step; he held Love's parasol jealously
between her face and the sun. It would
have pleased him, doubtless, bad the snap-
dragons in the garden beds been real ones,
that lie might have slain them in her de-
fence. He ventured to pick a nosegay ami
offer it to her. She accepted it with
courtesy, and when they returned to the
house, gave it to his grandmother.
The tea-drinking that afternoon was a
sore embarrassment and trial to Love.
The squire w 
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